Mom often told me the story of how she met Dad.
“I met your father in the men’s washroom at Hillingdon,” Mom smiled and laughed as she relived the moment.
In the summer of 1953, Mom was assisting a male patient to the washroom one afternoon. She met a handsome young man, Peter Spare, the Assistant Clinical Chemist. As a nurse she was one of the few women permitted into the men’s washroom.
“He was surprised to see me,” Mom said.
A few days later when they crossed paths they smiled as they talked about their bathroom encounter. That started a two year courtship.
Once Mom and Dad got to know each other they found, despite their very different upbringings, they had many things in common. Both had grown up on a farm and hated the farming life. Each had chosen a profession in health care and had achieved their education through their own means, hard work and determination – and they both desired to leave the UK. When it came to getting an education and forging ahead in life Mom like Dad found her helping hand at the end of her own arm.
Dad owned a three-wheeled, two-seater, Bond Minicar convertible powered by a motorcycle engine. It was constantly breaking down so he kept a tool box in the back to change a spark plug or whatever needed fixing. Often it needed a push to start it. But Mom didn’t know how to drive. Dad would have to steer while Mom pushed. When the car started Mom jumped in and off they went. They made a good team.
“I swear I pushed that car everywhere we went,” Mom said.
September 3, 1955, Mom and Dad were married at St. Patrick‘s church in Northampton, England, and they spent their honeymoon at Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford on Avon. When they returned from their honeymoon Mom and Dad made their final preparations to set sail for their new life together in a new land. In early October they sailed to Canada. They docked in Montreal and rode the train to Sudbury, Ontario, with just $18.00 cash between them.
Soon after they arrived in Canada Mom and Dad tried to start a family. I was born four years later and they adopted Catharine three years after that. Mom and Dad were dedicated parents who raised Catharine and me in a loving and stable environment. They were always supportive to each other and were unwavering in their parental duties.
All through my grade school years we had family, neighbours and friends in and out of our home and guests over for dinner. For every occasion throughout the year we had people and parties at our home. My illness changed all that. From my neurosurgery at Sick Kids in Toronto until my recovery the house parties stopped. During those two years only a few friends came by. An elephant lived in our house and many people didn’t know what to say or do. Adults with healthy children were silently thankful they weren’t in Mom and Dad’s shoes.
The traumatic experience of my brain tumour had affected all of us. I was left with disabilities and the plight of adjusting to them. Mom and Dad had to recover from coping with the distress of watching me get sicker during 1973. They seriously wondered if I would live though it. Catharine quietly watched as the world focused on me. Being younger she weathered the storm better than any of us. When the two years of my recovery had passed, and I was getting out again, the house parties gradually started. Once more other people’s voices enriched our lives.
Mom and Dad continuously applauded my efforts to overcome my disabilities. They did anything and everything to forge a successful path in life for me. Mom never accepted what had happened to me. She had a mother’s guilt of thinking she could have done more for me. She saw the perfect little healthy boy that she had prayed so hard for become sick. Mom was thankful for me but felt cheated that she couldn’t bear more children. Also Mom didn’t become the woman of wealth and prominence she had dreamt about. Mom lived her days looking back to her troubled childhood and it influenced every decision she made. She worked hard to get out of her impoverished life and she sensed she was succeeding in her aims only to be thwarted by circumstances. She wondered when the cruelties of this world would let up on her. Mom felt as if life had been very unfair to her.
“Why do some people go through life with hardly any problems,” Mom said to me, “and others get so many?”
The culmination of all her worries sowed the seed of her depression that didn’t surface until the 1980s. The love that brought Mom and Dad together and bonded them through their life’s journey was always there. As Mom’s depression took root a wedge was driven between them.
Part of Mom’s depression stemmed from the fact that she had no siblings in Canada to support her. “If only Rita had lived she would have come with me,” Mom said to me with a mournful sigh. I recall how her spirits were lifted when she received a letter from one of her sisters. Mom yearned to return to Ireland but Dad had no desire to do so. Although she dearly loved her husband Mom very much resented his choice to stay in Canada. Mom and Dad remained together out of their commitment to each other and to Catharine and me.
Even after Mom’s depression started to take hold of her the get-togethers with friends continued. Not until 1985 did the house parities start to taper off. During the three years I was in London, Ontario, things really diminished. When I came back to Thunder Bay the house was much quieter and even general house maintenance had been left. It demonstrated to me how central I was to Mom and Dad’s lives. Without my presence they lost the focus of what had driven them forward together for many years. Mom and Dad lost each other in their efforts to build a life for me.
When we started Tara Scientific Laboratories my parents found a renewed energy in helping me build a future. Running Tara demanded a lot of our time and by and large took the place of our social lives. Not until the final three months when Mom and I were shutting Tara down did I truly notice just how quiet the house had become. Many of the family friends who were in and out of the house over the years had moved out of town, passed away, or just stopped coming – friends who were never replaced. Our home had become a lonely place.
Once Tara was finished and Dad’s affairs had been put in order, Mom began to lose her positive outlook. She sensed the emptiness of our house too and didn’t see how or have the energy to liven it up once again. Mom lost her focus of helping me build a life now that Tara was gone. She had seen me to my 40th year but she could find no more of herself to give. Mom died of a heart attack in her sleep June 10, 1999. I think her spirit drained away over the last three months of her life.
I laid Dad to rest and then Mom. On June 15, 1999, the day after I buried Mom, I filed Tara’s final taxes. Maybe it was meant to be that way. Mom and Dad steered the course of my life for its first 40 years. Tara Scientific Laboratories was the last part of it on which my parents had influence. When I laid Tara to rest I put aside my parents’ capacity to shape my life. Now navigating my way was solely up to me.
1974 began with me clunk-stepping my way around the house. It was slow going but at least I could get about. Using the walls and furniture for support was no longer an option. I had to keep my knees locked when standing or walking. If they buckled even slightly down I went. I had to climb furniture to get up again. If I fell in a hallway with no furniture around I was stuck. Mom suggested putting a horn on the walker so I could honk for help. Dad fixed a bicycle horn to the walker. At the same time he attached a blue plastic bicycle basket to the top crossbar. This simple basket afforded me a lot of independence. I could do things like get something from the cupboard, drop it in the basket and take it to the kitchen table. It may not seem like much to an able-bodied person but after months of having to depend on other people to do everything for me except breathe I welcomed the freedom.
Dad pushed me around in a wheelchair when we went outside. All street curbs were square. If we were going down a sidewalk and we wanted to cross the street, we had to wheel down the sidewalk of the adjoining street to find a driveway to take us to street level, cross the street, go up an adjacent driveway to the sidewalk, go back up the street and continue down the sidewalk that we were on originally.
Dad and I wanted to see a hockey game at Fort William Gardens in January. Dad phoned the Gardens to find out how to get access for someone in a wheelchair. He was told that he had to wheel me in the back way where they herded the circus elephants, go under the stands and stay at ice level. When I heard this I said, “No.” Why couldn’t I go in the front doors like everyone else? Why shouldn’t I?
In February the doctors started another attempt to wean me off decadron. They lowered the dose as before but this time they replaced the decadron with prednisone. This regimen worked for me and by midsummer I was off all medication.
Prednisone: A synthetic corticosteroid medication used to reduce swelling and inflammation.
As the dose of the medications decreased my legs got stronger, my eye sight started to clear, my co-ordination, speech and swallowing improved, and I was expanding my chest again. My clunk-stepping was faster and I leaned less on the walker. I started to lift my walker and take two or three steps. I felt a wonderful sense of achievement because I knew in my head and heart I would walk again.
At long last it was time to put the walker aside and take a step without support. I was nervous. I remember standing beside the fridge in the kitchen. I held the walker beside me with my right hand and firmly grasped the counter with my left. Then I let go of the counter and walker. With my arms spread wide I stepped forward into Mom’s waiting arms. With daily practice that one step became two then three then four. I can’t adequately describe in words my sense of joy, freedom and accomplishment in taking that one first step.
I have always loved the rich character and ornate architecture of 19th and early 20th century buildings. But I am dismayed at how they were designed with only able-bodied people in mind. These buildings have been retrofitted to be wheelchair accessible. However they can never be as accessible for persons with mobility problems as modern buildings that are designed to accommodate people in wheelchairs. Even though I can walk, because of my mobility problems due to my poor balance, retrofitted buildings are harder for me to use. I should have started Grade 9 at Hillcrest High School in September of 1973. Because of my health I couldn’t go.
I should have started Grade 9 at Hillcrest High School in September of 1973. Because of my health I couldn’t go. My parents arranged with the local Board of Education for me to receive my high school education through the home schooling program set by the Ministry of Education in Toronto. I guess you could say my high school was 909 Yonge St. in Toronto. When asked I say, “Hillcrest,” to avoid explanation.
Academically I received a thorough high school education. What I missed out on was the social part of going to high school. When I attended LU I listened to my classmates talk about the parties and outings they had with their high school friends. I missed all of that.
The Ministry mailed the texts and materials to me. At home I wrote out the assignments onto a note pad of lined paper with a section at the top of each page for name, date, course and assignment number. I tore the pages off the pad, put them in the envelope provided and return them to the Ministry for marking.
At the time I started the high school correspondence courses my writing was reasonably legible although my hand was slow. Given my blurred eyesight my writing stayed on the lines of the page for the most part. But because of my poor vision I couldn’t read the books or instructions. Mom began reading the books to me. For three years we sat across from each other at the dining room table. She read course instructions, assignment questions, text books, short stories, novels and plays as I made notes. I best remember the dystopian world of Fahrenheit 451 where a government tries to suppress the knowledge of its people through burning books. It was scary. Never had I imagined such a society could exist. I was inspired as I listened to The Miracle Worker, a play about the fortitude of a young woman, Anne Sullivan, who taught Helen Keller, a deaf/blind girl, to read and write. Helen Keller became a personal hero as I learned about her resolve to conquer her disabilities just as I was trying to overcome mine. The correspondence courses didn’t start in September and finish in June. They went all year round which allowed me to work at my own pace.
On the other hand math was Dad’s domain. He read the math texts and course assignments to me. However it’s hard to read out an equation so the listener can understand. So Dad and I sat beside each other. I made notes as he read. When I needed to I held my magnifying glass over the equation or formula to read it for myself.
After the first year of study my eye sight began to clear, my hand was faster, my writing was more legible and it stayed on the lines more. Even the teacher who had been marking my assignments at the Ministry of Education in Toronto noticed the improvement.
Christmas of 1974 was a happier time than the last. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind I would live. I was getting steadily stronger, speaking more clearly, no longer incontinent and able to do more things for myself. The year 1975 would be a time I could look to the future once more. Brian wins!