It is May again in Ottawa, my favourite month. The flowering trees are in bloom and there are all shades of pink everywhere.
Five years ago, on my Mother's Day, I planted my own flowering tree. A magnolia. By Mother's Day, five years ago, I was almost okay. Not completely. I still had a stent and I didn't really know what was going to happen, but the clouds seemed to be parting.
I did know that I wanted to plant a tree, a beautiful flowering tree of my own. Brenda and I walked to the Arboretum and looked at all the magnolias to see which one I would like best, and then Jaime and I went to the nursery on Saturday. We picked a smaller size one that we thought would fit on our front lawn. We planted it on Mother's Day and all gathered around baby tree and took a picture.
We lovingly tended to it all summer. Once winter came, we wrapped it warm to protect it from the snow.
I never said it out loud, but I thought that if tree grew and thrived, if it lived and survived the winter, then I would live and thrive too. As long as the tree was all right, I would be all right.
Now, five years later, the magnolia is still standing and so am I.
Yesterday, I went to my six month check up with Dr. Hopkins. I was getting a bit impatient with the long wait but I forgot all about it when I finally saw her.
I wasn't expecting it but she told me it was the last time she was going to see me. "I am no good to you anymore," she said. "I am setting you free. I am giving you back to the care of your parents."
"People celebrate this milestone," she told me.
I burst into tears and sobbed. Partly, I couldn't believe that I had finally hit the milestone. Partly, the whole ordeal came back to me. And partly, I was sad to be saying good-bye to Dr. Hopkins. She saved my life, literally, and buoyed me with hope and optimism through the darkest time of my life. How can I even begin to thank someone for that?
"This is the kind of relationship you want to end," she told me. "This is a good thing. Most of my other good-byes are because my patients have died."
For her, I am a victory.
I always thought that the five-year mark would be some magic line. I thought I would feel safe after five years. But though the trauma has faded, I don't feel perfectly safe. I don't feel safe at all. I wish I could have the comfort and protection of Dr. Hopkins for ever. How can I go on in my trajectory without her?
I read a memoir recently in which the character talked about the saying, "I can't go on. I will go on."
I still have my magnolia, and I have my family. I still don't know what will happen. I know now that we can never know what will happen.
But I know it is my favourite month, and that I can get through almost anything.
I will go on.
