[Image taken from the deck of The Queen of Surrey]
I’m recuperating from a sledding accident and trying to catch up with things from bed. The pandemic is making me think a lot about people I’ve lost over the years. It’s approaching the 3rd anniversary of the memorial service for my beloved cousin, Dru Vaughn. Dru was the youngest daughter of my mother’s older sister, Phyllis. She lived in Gibsons, British Columbia, a ferry ride from Vancouver. She left behind her husband Peter, three children, and a glass and timber home of her own design, filled with her paintings. I rewrote this essay, originally published in the now defunct online narrative medicine journal: “Hospital Drive” in 2019.
You told me once that you saw a pair of elks from your perch on the upper deck – starting their long glide to Gambier Island – their giant racks aloft. Today, the Queen of Surrey cuts through the smooth waters of Horseshoe Bay. Disturbances on the surface hint at wildlife underneath: seals and sea lions, whales and dolphins. The Coastal Mountains plunge into the sea and their peaks echo and echo back to Squamish. Once past Bowen’s Island the bay opens up, and the range running up the spine of Vancouver Island comes into view. Mountain tip-tops disappear into haze.
When I spoke with you on the phone I knew right away. Hoarseness is a sign that the tumor has infiltrated the spaces between your lungs and has trapped the recurrent laryngeal branch of the left vagus nerve as it courses under the arch of your aorta. The small lump you felt just under the surface of the skin on your right side, and the larger lump in your neck, were accompanied by a tumor in the chest. And elsewhere.
You shared with me your thoughts about God and his healing powers. A group of Guatemalans pray for you. I was happy this comforted you, but I am afraid talk of God just makes the sadness grip my throat. And then we touched on the missed opportunities, the treatments, your fears, the pain. We talked about our kids. We made plans for another visit.
There’s a little bit of chop where the current folds around the Sunshine Coast. Langsdale is in front of me now. The whistle blows. I jump and cover my ears. I gather my luggage and go down below to disembark.
There you are. Too thin. Your once black curls are a sharp shade of carrot.
“The white hair made people want to help me across the street,” you say.
I reach out to hug you close; you step back. “Can’t hug,” you whisper. “The cancer –“
So we don’t hug. We just grin and grin.