For years, I have loved reading The Globe and Mail’s personal essay section. I appreciate the opportunity to read the reflections of others from across the country on all kinds of different themes. When my daughter graduated from high school this spring, I wrote something that summarizes the experience that I write about in the context of this project. Today, I am delighted that the essay published is the one that I wrote!

You can read it in English on The Globe and Mail site, or the translation in French, below. Happy reading!

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Depuis des années, j'adore lire la section du Globe and Mail sur les essais soumis par les lecteurs. J'apprécie l’occasion de lire les réflexions d'autres personnes de partout au pays sur différents thèmes.

Quand ma fille a obtenu son diplôme d’études secondaires ce printemps, j’ai rédigé un essai qui résume l'expérience dont je parle dans le cadre de ce projet. Aujourd'hui, je suis ravie que l’essai publié est celui que j'ai écrit !

Vous pouvez le lire en anglais sur le site du Globe and Mail, ou la traduction en français, ci-dessous. Bonne lecture !

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Le spécialiste a feuilleté le dossier, il a levé la tête et a dit que mon bébé avait subi un AVC. C’est pourquoi sa main restait toujours fermée et elle ne rampait pas. Il a ensuite dit qu’à cause de l’AVC, ma fille ne marcherait probablement jamais et que si jamais elle réussissait à le faire, elle boiterait fortement. Elle aurait probablement aussi un retard de développement.

À travers la vague de nausée qui commençait à me submerger, je lui ai demandé désespérément ce que je pouvais faire pour l’aider. Il m’a répondu qu’il n’y avait rien à faire, que l’AVC était permanent. Mais j’ai insisté pour qu’il me donne d’autres options — il devait y avoir quelque chose, n’importe quoi que je pouvais faire pour essayer de l’aider, même un peu. Le seul conseil qu’il avait à offrir était que je devais « apprendre à vivre avec ».

Lorsque j’ai attaché ma fille dans son siège d’auto pour rentrer chez nous, elle m’a fait un grand sourire. Mon esprit traitait frénétiquement ce que je venais d’entendre, mais mon cœur ne parvenait pas à concilier les limites imposées à son futur avec l’intelligence que je voyais pétiller dans ses yeux. Comment pourrait-il n’y avoir absolument rien que je pouvais faire pour l’aider ? Comment pourrait-il n’y avoir aucun espoir, ne serait-ce qu’un tout petit ?

Il n’y avait rien dans ma vie jusque-là qui aurait pu me préparer à ce moment. Je me souviens si clairement de la vision que j’avais pour moi-même quand j’étais jeune. Je me souviens m’être sentie si adulte à mon bal de fin d’année, si pleine d’espoir pour l’avenir, dans ma robe de taffetas bleu foncé. Tout semblait possible. Bien sûr, j’allais aller à l’université. Bien sûr, j’allais trouver un travail, me marier et fonder une famille, dans cet ordre. Bien sûr, tout allait bien se passer. Pourquoi en serait-il autrement ? Deux diplômes universitaires et une décennie plus tard, j’étais sur le point de divorcer, à la maison avec deux enfants et maintenant ceci.

Au cours des jours et des semaines qui ont suivi le rendez-vous, la conversation avec le spécialiste ne cessait de jouer en boucle dans mon esprit. À un certain point, j’ai réalisé qu’ironiquement, le seul soupçon de lueur d’espoir résidait dans ses propres mots. Peut-être « probablement jamais » comme dans « elle ne marcherait probablement jamais » ne signifiait pas nécessairement « qu’elle ne marcherait certainement jamais ». Et peut-être « probablement elle aurait un retard de développement » ne signifiait pas nécessairement « qu’elle aurait certainement un retard de développement ». Certes, c’était une lueur d’espoir bien faible, mais à défaut d’autre chose, c’était tout ce que j’avais et cela devrait suffire.

J’ai donc fait tout ce que je pouvais pour aider ma fille — au cas où ce serait possible. J’ai commencé par l’apprentissage de la marche. Elle était certainement hésitante, tombait souvent et boitait. Mais finalement, elle a appris à maintenir son équilibre et mettre un pied avant l’autre pour aller là où elle voulait. Elle pouvait marcher — sans l’ombre d’un doute. En l’absence d’un point de repère pour indiquer ce qui était possible, cette réalisation a transformé ma faible lueur d’espoir en raison de persévérer.

Ainsi, chaque fois qu’on me disait qu’elle ne pourrait pas faire ceci ou cela, je demandais : « Et si ? Et si c’était possible, comment pourrais-je l’aider à y arriver ? » En même temps, j’étais à l’affût des petites lueurs d’espoir qui pourraient indiquer que quelque chose de positif pourrait être possible, aussi minime et imperceptible qu’elle puisse sembler aux autres. J’ai lutté contre toutes sortes de réactions négatives et j’ai fait de mon mieux pour trouver des solutions et des alternatives.

Cette année, tant d’années plus tard, malgré les sombres perspectives qui m’ont été données au tout début de sa vie, ma fille a obtenu son diplôme d’études secondaires. Il y a encore des activités de réadaptation à faire mais nos conversations portent davantage sur ce dont la plupart des adolescentes aiment discuter — ce qui se passe à l’école, la dernière astuce beauté d’une Youtubeuse et surtout qui porterait quoi au bal de fin d’année.

Au début du printemps, nous avons commencé à chercher partout la robe parfaite, mais aucun magasin ne semblait avoir ce que ma fille avait en tête. En visitant mes parents, elle a trouvé ma vieille robe de taffetas bleu foncé à l'arrière d'un placard, conservée par ma mère pendant toutes ces années. Elle lui allait parfaitement, et la robe était apparemment, exactement ce qu'elle cherchait. Quelques retouches mineures pour moderniser le look, une nouvelle paire de chaussures et elle était prête pour le bal.

En regardant où nous en sommes aujourd'hui, tant d'années après ce rendez-vous dévastateur, je ne peux m'empêcher de me demander où nous en serions si je n'avais pas été si poussée à chercher de petites lueurs d'espoir.  Aurait-elle quand même obtenu son diplôme d'études secondaires et en train de s’apprêter à apporter sa propre contribution à la société si j'avais appris à vivre avec la sombre perspective décrite il y a toutes ces années ? Je ne le saurai jamais avec certitude.

Ces jours-ci, je me demande ce qui arriverait si un plus grand nombre d'entre nous laissait ouverte la possibilité que peut-être, il y avait place à la moindre possibilité d'amélioration ou de changement—même si on nous a dit le contraire, même si nous-mêmes ne sommes pas sûrs. Si l'amélioration ne faisait une différence qu'une fois de temps en temps, ne serait-ce pas mieux que rien ? Et si nous nous laissions les uns les autres garder les quelques lueurs d'espoir que nous pourrions avoir, au lieu de les enlever par inadvertance avec nos paroles et nos actions — cela pourrait-il peut-être susciter plus d'espoir ? Plus de changements ? Cela pourrait-il avoir un impact positif dans l'ensemble, même si on ne pouvait jamais le mesurer ou le prouver ?

Alors que je regardais ma fille partir pour son bal de fin d’année, se sentant si adulte, si pleine d’espoir pour l’avenir, dans ma robe de taffetas bleu foncé, tout semblait possible.

I have been running on and off for more than three decades. (Or jogging, as we used to call it back in the 1980’s when I started…) That’s a really long time to have done any one activity with any kind of consistency. Over all those years, projects, priorities and people have come and gone in my life but my love for putting on my running shoes and going for a run remains unchanged. I like the solitude. I like the rhythm of my feet on the pavement. I like the way it makes me conscious of the changing seasons—from the first leaves on the ground that I wouldn’t otherwise notice, to the first crocuses of spring like I saw this past weekend even though it snowed again later in the week. And, I like the feeling of strength that running gives me, as I push myself through the discomfort of the day to accomplish what I’ve set out to do.

And, although it’s not essential to my running happiness, I really like those brief moments when I pass another runner and we ever-so-briefly acknowledge one another with a quick wave or a little nod. Maybe it’s silly but when that happens, I feel a small surge of extra motivation, a sense of added strength that comes from feeling like at that moment, we share an understanding of how hard we’re both working to keep going, even as we continue off in opposite directions, never to see one another again. That’s especially true on the dark, cloudy days when motivation is harder to come by and even the slightest sense of a shared experience feels like kindness.

Having said that, I don’t know if it’s my neighbourhood or the changing times but I have noticed fewer and fewer people waving back as the years go by. Out of habit, I’m still lifting my hand, ready to acknowledge a fellow runner as I run past them (or even a walker or someone with a stroller…) but almost everyone runs right past me, looking straight ahead as if I simply wasn’t there. Each time that happens, I feel the same way—kind of like when you meet someone and you smile and extend your hand to shake theirs but for some reason, they don't take it so you’re just left standing there, awkwardly, with your hand outstretched to no one in particular, feeling rather foolish.

So, I've tried to hold back my impulse to acknowledge fellow runners as we pass one another but it feels strange to run past someone as if they weren’t there, especially when I’ve been aware of them running towards me for some time before we finally pass one another. And now and again, there is actually someone who, in that brief moment, seems so genuinely delighted by my gesture that their momentary look of happiness makes up for all the times my waves go unanswered. Not to mention, how encouraged I feel when, on the now very rarest of occasions, someone waves before me…!

When I think of the darkest periods of my life, like when my daughter was first diagnosed as having suffered a stroke, or the countless times I’ve faced something that requires more effort than I think I have, an unexpected smile from a cashier at the grocery store, a random kind word from a receptionist, or any remotely positive acknowledgement, wave, nod or otherwise, from anyone under any circumstances, can make a world of difference to me in that moment. Just like with running, on the dark, cloudy days, when motivation is so hard to come by, even the slightest sense of a shared experience can feel like kindness.

So, I think I’m going to keep waving. In any case, I’ll still be running around the neighbourhood, enjoying the solitude, the rhythm of my feet on the pavement and the changing seasons, so why not, just in case…?

About a year ago, I had an interesting conversation about life in general with someone who astutely summed up what we were talking about by saying something along the lines of, “...On your tombstone, it will show the year you were born and the year you died. The dash in-between will represent your entire life. So, the question we need to ask ourselves is...What’s in the dash?”  A year later, I still find that interesting to think about.

First of all, it’s jarring to think that for all of us, the entirety of our lives will eventually be represented by a tiny in-between symbol. And, since “dash” can also mean “to destroy” as in dashing someone’s hopes, or “being hasty” as in dashing off to a meeting, there could also be an underlying negative connotation to the whole thing.

In my case, however, consistent with my ongoing focus on the importance of celebrating the tiniest of triumphs in the context of my daughter’s rehabilitation after a childhood stroke (as I’ve written about in my book and throughout these posts), I prefer the idea of “dash” in terms of “a small amount of something”—as in a dash of salt. In that context, I truly believe that it’s been our ongoing recognition and appreciation of the little dashes of hope here, and the little dashes of encouragement there, over many years, that has fuelled much of our perseverance and therefore, much of my daughter’s progress to overcome the effects of the stroke as much as possible.

And more generally, despite the frustrations of everyday life, I think that consciously trying to add dashes of gratitude into the mix of my daily thoughts is a major contributor to my overall wellbeing. There is, actually, always something to be grateful for. I’m grateful my daughters still choose to have dinner with me most evenings and talk to me about their lives as the young adults they are becoming. Over dinner, I can pass the salt and still add a dash of motherly encouragement here and there to the extent that it’s still welcome. I’m grateful for the love and support of my partner, and my family. I’m grateful for every single expression of interest in this project from close to home and far away. I’m grateful for having had the opportunity again this year to be a guest lecturer at McGill University's School of Physical and Occupational Therapy.  I’m grateful for the questions and comments from the students, all of which give me so much hope for the future.

So, a year later, I’m still reflecting on the question of What’s in the dash? But, maybe my answer would be that in my dash so far, there are many little dashes of this and that, all of which absolutely must be appreciated in the here and now.

As much as I thrive on having a routine in my life in order to fit in everything that needs to get done on any given day (and maybe get to the things I just want to do…), I recognize that the “learning and inspiration from the simplest of sources” as I recently wrote about, is sometimes facilitated by stepping out of my routine for a time.

This past week for example, I spent a few days in Maine. I know November isn’t exactly prime time for tourism, as evidenced by the fact that many of the tourism-related services like the bike rental shops were closed for the season and that we narrowly missed a major storm the day before we arrived. But, if you don’t need to rent a bike and you don’t mind bundling up, there is beauty and inspiration to be found in so many places. In my case, walking along the wind-swept coastline, a blustery palette of blues and greys, and nothing but ocean as far as you can see, was a chilly but refreshing reminder that there is so much beyond my to-do list and whatever frustrations I might feel as I myopically move from task to task in my usual routine.

And surprisingly, beyond the reminder to look above and beyond my daily list, I was also unexpectedly reminded of my past. In a Scandinavian-themed store, I came across all sorts of products and items that spontaneously brought forward warm memories of a time decades ago. I was born in Sweden but have grown up proudly Canadian. Still, the memories brought forward by objects I hadn’t seen or thought about in years was a heart-warming reminder of the person I was before I became a mother, before I faced the challenges of figuring out how to help my daughter after a childhood stroke, and before my days were defined by the activities that make up my current routine.

In a way, these recent experiences reflect the perspective I am generally trying to bring to the broader discussion about the importance of hope and perseverance in the context of rehabilitation after a childhood stroke. The importance of looking beyond the diagnosis in the short term and maybe drawing on one’s experiences from the past to move forward. Even when she was a baby, I always believed that my daughter could be more than the sum total of the dark limitations placed on her by the first specialist we met. A decade and a half or so later, that had certainly proven to be the case. I continue to appreciate the learning and inspiration I find from the simplest of sources—both at home and away.

As I wrote in September, I loved my grade 4 teacher. She didn’t smile much and she was very stern but I thought she was wonderful. Back then, in the late seventies, her stories about “the good old days” included anecdotes about how it had been when she had gone to school in a one-room school house. I was completely fascinated by the idea that the person standing right in front of me could have actually gone to school like a “pioneer girl”.

We all thought it sounded so terribly old-fashioned and that the kids back then, or “children” as she insisted on calling them, couldn’t possibly have learned as much as we were learning in what clearly seemed like such modern times. After all, they hadn’t had all of the fancy stuff that we had—cassette tapes for listening to music, walkie-talkies for talking to a friend, antenna TVs for watching our favourite shows and digital wrist watches for keeping track of time so we didn’t miss our show the only day of the week it was on.

To our surprise, however, our teacher believed that the kids back then might have actually been learning faster than we were. She said that because all the grades had been together in the same room, the younger kids learned the more advanced concepts along with the older ones by just being in the same room with them. Nothing fancy, just looking, listening and being part of what was going on around them.

Sometimes I wonder if with the ubiquitous presence of technology in our lives, we sometimes forget that there are also simple ways of learning and doing things. I’d be absolutely lost without my iPhone. It has replaced almost everything…the cassette tapes for listening to music, the walkie-talkie for staying in touch with a friend, the antenna TV for watching my favourite show and my watch for keeping track of time, even though I can now essentially watch my favourite show any time and place I like, day or night.

However, I still appreciate the inherent value in the “older ways” of doing things. And, I regularly seek out opportunities to hear live music, talk to a friend in person, go for a walk rather than watching yet another episode of something I find entertaining and while out, not worrying too much about the time.  And, looking back on about a decade and a half of helping my daughter with her rehabilitation after a childhood stroke, I’d say that playing with her older sister in the park when she was younger, seeing other kids swimming, skipping or doing anything at all that she hadn’t yet learned, has often been equally effective as anything I’ve tried to do to help her—learning and inspiration can still come from the simplest of sources.