Today marks the halfway point in my chemotherapy — a small point of celebration in a world awaiting a second wave of Covid-19. In fact, my diagnosis goes back almost exactly to that same unlucky Friday the 13th in March when Vancouver joined the rest of the world by grinding to a halt.
And while most of us succumbed to binge watching Netflix and online shopping (and a smaller number actually contracted coronavirus or found themselves on the front line of the disease), I played hide n’ seek with the Pandemic while attending the cancer clinic for treatments (and occasional trips to the hospital’s emergency room).
It was also during this time that my mother, who was quarantined in an assisted living residence in Toronto, put herself on end-of-life care (in part so she’d be allowed to receive family during Covid-19). It’s hard to put a carefree spin on cancer, but I tried to assure her saying I had “good news” and “bad news”. The good news was that it’s treatable and I didn’t need to say the bad news given our family propensity for cancer. Despite my attempts to make light, she fretted in her final days. On Easter Morning she passed away. Her last words to me were “I’m sorry” which I took to mean, “I’m sorry I can’t be here for you while you go through cancer.”
During this tumultuous time, I naïvely looked forward to some spare time for music and writing. But that’s been nearly impossible as my health dipped repeatedly below the level that could, for example, allow me to sit at a desk or find the air capacity to puff into my clarinet or tárogató. Even so, I was able to take an online fiction writing course and record some tracks on my penny whistle (ya gotta start where you’re at).