Discharge day, Oct. 21, 1991 / Credit: Mom
The sun glared through the curtains.
I squinted at the clock. I was afraid I’d slept through my alarm. It’s set so loud it could wake up the half the neighbourhood. Meanwhile, I can sleep through the blasting sound of random bells.
I stretched, smiling, and said, “Today is mine.” I talk to myself, just for context.
I enjoyed my breakfast then savored a hot cup of decaf coffee before it turned into decaf iced coffee.
I glanced at the time. “I’m still in surgery,” I said, and I giggled.
But on October 18, 1991, no one was giggling while I having brain surgery.
I’d just entered grade 10, I was 15 years old. On the honour roll. A promising figure skating. It was the era of jumps, and I could fly. My choreo and spins were… anyway, I could fly. School, a breeze. Plus student council, dance committee, track team, long distance team. In other words, life was good.
Then, bam, life changed overnight and revolved around a nickel-size brain tumour. In my head.
A month later, a neurosurgeon spent seven and a half hours scooping out the tumour at the Children’s Health Science Centre in Winnipeg. Like a cat, the tumour came back 26 months later when I was in grade 12, but let’s focus on the first tumour.
October 18th, 2026. I didn’t make plans. I jumped in my vehicle and went with the flow. Realizing I drove the same streets, taking the same turns, I toyed with the idea of driving out of Winnipeg.
The mall was a no. I was there two days prior. Dodging people who were staring at their phones with zero idea of their surroundings. If you walk into them, they don’t even notice. They just continue on their Zombie staring way.
Instead, I went to the happiest place on earth.
Dollarama.
Where you walk in for one item and emerge three hours later with a painted zipper bag slung over your shoulder and six pieces of construction paper slapping you in the face.
I spoke to random people. Commented on items. Chased a woman down because she couldn’t find tweezers, and I found them after she left the aisle. I bought the most adorable agenda for next year. Pink, with “2027” embossed on the front, and it fits in my purse. No, I didn’t try this experiment at Dollarama.
Before I went inside the store though, I set a limit. When I saw my total, I felt like high-fiving the person behind me. Celebrate the little wins.
With my surprisingly logical purchases – seriously, Lysol wipes, $3.25 – I knew my next destination. My favourite burger place, Wayback Burger. I don’t eat beef, so it’s a grilled chicken burger on a gluten free bun, no butter on the bun, no seasonings or spices on the chicken, lettuce and tomato, and ketchup and mustard on the side.
The guy said, “That’s it?”
I said, “That’s all. It’s dull.” Then I realized, it’s not. “Actually, no. It’d not dull. It’d how I like it,” and I smiled as though I were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
He laughed and said, “Nothing wrong with that.”
Next, Starbucks. Not a latte though. The week prior, I had an interview, and they had Starbucks’ decaf coffee and tiny coffee cups. That coffee was like drinking chocolate with a hint of caramel.
The line at Starbucks was short. Just one person. They knew what they wanted but they were trying to remember the password for their loyalty app. Of course, what better time to change your password than the present. Once they reset the password, and I aged a few years, they changed their order and went back on the phone, searching the menu.
At that point, a bag of ground Starbucks was a logical choice. Since I was in Safeway, I grabbed a few more items and confused a Gen Z employee by asking, “Do you know where I can find Coffeemate?”
I decided to snub the self-checkouts and chose a real, live, breathing human cashier. We spoke – and it wasn’t awkward.
At home, I popped French fries in the oven – baked is better – made myself a cup of decaf coffee. Then I ate my chicken burger and binged on Unsolved Mysteries. Doesn’t everybody love when crimes are solved because of advances in forensic science?
This may seem like an ordinary day, and it was ordinary. I didn’t plot and plan. Not even which Dollarama. Taylor or Charleswood? Taylor with the win.
I mark my tumour-versaries every year and epilepsy milestones (11 years, three months, and so forth seizure-free). I’ll write a blog or post a photo, or vlog until I’m hoarse.
This tumour-versary though, I wanted to be chill. Take my time and enjoy and feel the sunshine. Blast music until my vehicle was vibrating. Sing out of tune. Make up the lyrics.
And that night, I felt happy for 15-year-old me.
Because 35 years ago, I was out of surgery. I knew my name, where I was, the date. Talking, laughing, telling the intern the three words she told me to remember – without being prompted. By nightfall, I’d even left my bed unassisted. Much to the amazement and chagrin of the nurses who rushed into my room when they heard a toilet flush.
Again, celebrate the little wins.
