I Will Write

Surprise, surprise! A contest requests that I write about something I’m passionate about and I choose to write about writing. How original! However, it’s the truth. Whenever I manage to write something that flows and clearly conveys my ideas, I feel a release; like I was holding my breath for an extended period and I finally let it out.

My passion for writing is actually in its’ infancy, as it is less than three months old. I haven’t taken an English course since high school and it was not one of my favourite subjects. I knew I was going to be a health care professional and therefore focused on the sciences. Those aging Boomers were going to ensure I had a steady job. I was always an avid reader though and I had many ideas for stories floating around in my head, but whenever I was asked to write an essay, book report or narrative, I could never make the words do what I wanted them to do. So, like many others I’m sure, because I was not immediately good at it, I assumed I never would be and I stopped trying. I accepted my lack of talent and focused on reading. Like an athlete that realizes they’ll never be drafted, and instead buys tickets to the games and sits in the bleachers. It’s still good fun, but man I wished I was good enough to be on the field.

The last thing I wrote was in 2016 for my cousin’s funeral. He posted a status on Facebook that was clearly meant to be an eternal goodbye to the world. It sent me, our family, his friends and the authorities into a panicked race, trying to find him before it was too late. I got a phone call that night, informing me that he was safe and sound and I went to bed relieved, believing he would get the appropriate help. I woke up the next morning to another phone call telling me that he had completed suicide. He was supposed to have been safe. I felt cheated.

At the service, I knew I was expected to reminisce and tell funny stories to honour him and the good times we had shared, but my confusion and anger had created an impenetrable fog around our happy memories and I didn’t have the strength or the desire to search through it. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted everyone to feel the pain. I wanted all of us to feel his pain. So, instead of anecdotes and funny jokes, I wrote a poem called “We Never Hang Out Anymore.” It wasn’t magnificently well written, it wasn’t perfect form, and it wouldn’t win a Nobel prize, but it helped me find my voice and cope. I used a poem to wound and heal at the same time.

And then I went back to reading.

In the summer of 2020, I worked on the frontline of the pandemic in the community. Home care was busy. People were being kicked out of hospital as soon as possible to avoid infection from COVID-19. People could not get admitted to Long Term Care because the facilities were in outbreak. People did not want to go to retirement homes because all of the restrictions had made it feel like a prison. People were choosing not to go to inpatient rehab out of fear. Everyone was stuck in the community. We were overwhelmed. At the end of the work day, unable to go to the gym, play volleyball or meet friends for drinks, I was struggling to find a way to relieve stress and recharge so that I could carry on. Even reading was not working. I needed a new hobby or project. I decided to edit my Opa’s memoir and get it bound into a proper book as a Christmas present for my Dad.

My Opa passed away in 2008 during my first year of university. As a young man who grew up in a German settlement in the middle of Ukraine during World War Two, he really shouldn’t have survived, as both sides considered him the enemy. My Opa was never able to talk to us about his experiences during the Second World War, but he understood the importance of sharing his story, so he wrote it down for his grandchildren. I have often wondered if my Opa felt the same release writing his memoir as I experience when I write…anything that makes sense. English was my Opa’s second language, although some of the turns of phrase and adjectives he used could occasionally have the reader believe otherwise. It turns out, that one of the main reasons he survived, other than his strength, determination and ingenuity, was because of a hernia that he had since childhood. Every time they tried to send him to the front lines, he failed the physical. When I found out that my Dad, my uncle and my brother, had the same hernia surgically repaired as kids, it was completely ridiculous, but I was a little bit jealous.

As I fixed simple grammar errors and rearranged sentences, I was amazed by how clearly I could hear my Opa’s voice thirteen years after he had passed away. The memoir he had written had enabled a piece of him to live on.

Most people spend their lives trying to accomplish something big so that they will be remembered after they die. Something tangible that people can see and hold onto. Most of the time, it’s a child. The child will look like you, talk like you, think like you, act like you and you get to live on. I grew up believing that life’s natural progression was go to school, get a job, meet a man, get married and have a family. Two out of five is a fail. Or at least society would have me believe that. As a woman who was chronically single before the pandemic, who could not date for almost two years because it was literally illegal, who turned the big 3-0 in quarantine and is very aware that her biological clock is ticking, the thought that there are other powerful ways to leave a mark without having babies was heartening. My Opa lived on through the words he had written and I could too.

There was no way I was writing a memoir though. “I was the daughter of a dentist, I earned two degrees and now I work 9 to 5.” Not exactly riveting. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life and it has been a hilariously fun ride so far. My relationship with my family and friends is great, I have a fantastic roof over my head and I have a dog whose only hobby is cuddling. Through my work, I make a difference in peoples’ lives every day. I am loved and I have purpose. Not many people can say all of that. I still want to leave something tangible for my siblings, nieces or nephews to refer to when I die and they are missing me. I wouldn’t write a memoir, but fictional writing could suffice.

They will be able to see my sense of humour in my character’s jokes. They will remember how I used to talk through my character’s dialogues. They will see my values in my character’s choices. They will see my strength in my character’s struggles. They will see my creativity in the worlds I will mold. They will put that all together and they will remember me. I don’t write with the expectation of becoming famous. I know I most likely will never get drafted to the big leagues, but I don’t have to sit on the bleachers either. I can get on the field and play for fun. So, I will write.

(If I’ve died and my family is reading this and crying…the plan is working. Muahahaha!)