Childhood Stories – Tammy W. Karatchuk

How a Marble Led to My Deviated Septum

A white marble caused my deviated septum.

Growing up, I was obsessed by a handful of games and toys. Breaking Point was the ultimate. Balancing individual blue balls with thin sticks on a hanging rack of connected white balls. It was the perfect game for my concentration and lung development, since I’d wail at the top of my lungs whenever I lost.

Playing with Little People was serious business / Photo credit: A brave mother

My overall favourite were my Fisher Price Little People. I’d spend hours playing with them and my treasured Tomy Merry-Go-Copter. The concept: Little People travelled via elevator and boarded a helicopter. The Copter dropped them onto a train. Similar to Queen Elizabeth and 007’s entrance during the 2012 London Summer Games.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzdTi7pXsbA

Board games? It was Mr. Mouth and Quick, Jump, It’s a Skunk.

I was obsessed by that Skunk Game. I’d watch the little white marbles roll when they were knocked by the skunk paddles. They’d disappear for a second then reappear. Where did they go? It was a mesmerizing game of split-second peek-a-boo.

Somehow we misplaced a marble, resulting in an uneven number. Literally an odd ball. So, I took the marble to sleep on my pillow at bedtime. The next morning, I placed the marble back in the box. But the lost ball hadn’t returned. Again, the same marble slept on my pillow. For awhile.

When 30 Years Seems Like Yesterday – The Chronicles and Confessions of a Brain Tumour Survivor

“Sept 16, 1991, Monday

Dear Diary

The nerologist, Mr. Young, told me that I have a brain tumor. It’s the size of a nickle. They’re sending me for more tests this week … I’m kind of still in shock. I never expected this. I expected epilepsy or, may be nothing. Jenn took it hard. I did to, eventually. I was so scared at first that I was, or am going to die. Surgery sounds scary!, but the tumor is low grade.”

You can tell my diary didn’t include spellcheck or Grammarly.

Today is the 30th anniversary of my first brain surgery, October 18, 1991.

I was 15 years old. Barely two weeks into grade 10. Looking forward to figure skating and entering my intermediate/pre-novice year. Taking driver’s ed. Getting my driver’s license. However, that changed overnight in mid-September after a seizure and a subsequent brain tumour diagnosis.

My mistake was pretending to be okay after that first diagnosis. Too often a child tries to be strong for their family and friends. We don’t want them to be sad, worried, feel more stress, deal with our pain, and so forth. With me, I felt like a burden because my parents needed someone to milk the cows, look after my four-year-old sister, find somewhere to stay in Winnipeg. The last thing they needed was a child rocking back and forth in a corner and blasting Metallica on their Walkman. I was more of a bubblegum pop girl, but still.

But I chose to pretend I was fine. I chose not to cry in front of my parents and friends. A couple of teachers wanted to start a support group for me. I chose to say no. The only time some of my friends saw me cry was my last day of school. We were on the bus, and one of my best friends was being dropped off. She hugged me and I could see her crying as she left the bus. I broke down. My other friends were saying, “You’ve been so strong, you need to cry,” and “Not many people would be able to handle this like you have.”

If they could’ve read my diary entries, they’d see I was stuffing my emotions.

My diary should’ve been about landing my double loop (alas) and worrying about exam exemptions. Instead it was, “I’m really nerseous inside, but if I act happy, no one knows.” My best speller certificate from grade three probably just burst into flames.

When You Sell a House, You Keep the Memories

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is pxl_20210919_212239063_3.jpg — Saying goodbye

My parents built their dream house.

A home in the woods. Surrounded by trails and bulrushes – and black bears.

Which means they sold their house and acreage on Highway 68. The acreage even had its own business name, “Karatchuk Acres.”

On September 30th, mom and dad went to their former home. One last time before the new owners took possession. They walked around the yards, reminiscing, taking photos. Sending selfies with, “Saying goodbye.” When my dad was ten months old, he moved to that acreage. My mom, since she was eighteen, and the three of us girls since birth.

Everything went with the sale. The front garden, flowerbeds, the apple trees. Sheds, garages, and silos. The red-weathered barn at the end of the driveway.

The middle portion is the the original house, seen above.
We moved into the rear bi-level bedrooms on New Year’s Day, 1988.
The front sunroom was completed in 2013. It replaced the brown south-facing deck and the main entrance,

With the sale also went a huge west yard where my first childhood home stood.

In 1985, my parents sold our 600 sq.ft. little house and we relocated to my late paternal grandparents house on the same acreage. The little house was lifted from the foundation, set onto a moving trailer, and transported to Eriksdale, Manitoba and its new owners.

But this is different.

When I visit my parents, I’ll see my childhood to cusp of adulthood home. But from the outside – and afar.

Losing Grandparents Doesn’t Become Simpler with Age

On December 2, 1984, my Gigi Karatchuk died at the age of 67. Baba died two years before him when I was six years old. I always understood death, but trying to process grief and primary school math is complex. Decades later, we lost our maternal grandparents, and those emotions resurfaced.

Losing grandparents is difficult, and it’s unique for each person. There isn’t a time limit because grief shouldn’t end. You will forever feel the loss when there’s an empty chair. You will have your moments and memories. Embrace your loss. And never be afraid to cry.

My Gigi Karatchuk died on December 2, 1984 at 67 years old, and Baba died also at 67 years old on October 12, 1982. My older sister is the one wearing the striped shirt, and I’m the one sucking my thumb. Photo, 1980

“Grandparents are only with us part-time.”

That was the gist of a late-80s MTS commercial.

As young grandchildren, we’re fortunate to remember and make memories with our grandparents. When our grandparents are still with us in our teen years, or our 20s, 30s, or 40s – we believe they are invincible.

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