What is home?

The first time I ever called Vancouver ‘home’ in front of my mom, she cried. I was the first of her kids to move away and gave no indication that I planned to return. I left Ontario on my own at 18, arriving several weeks in advance of UBC’s move-in day for a field hockey training camp. The first step I took off the plane was the first time I had touched down anywhere west of Thunder Bay. I had never seen the campus or the city, and it might as well have been a foreign country to me. It took a long time for Vancouver to feel like home, and I don’t recall when the transition actually occurred. I don’t know that it ever fully did. However, there came a point when I would refer to Toronto as ‘home’ when I was in Vancouver, and Vancouver ‘home’ when I was in Toronto. From that point forward, the concept of home was a duality in my mind. What made it home? It wasn’t an apartment or house — I moved 9 times in 10 years. It wasn’t a sense of purpose — I had jobs but not a career. It wasn’t a deep connection to my alma mater — I never completed my degree. So what was it? Lately, I’ve found myself thinking often about the question: what makes a place home?

A neighbour stopped by today to pick up a flower arrangement that had been left with us while she was out. We invited her in from the cold for a cup of tea. (Tea makes everything better.) I hadn’t had the chance to meet Pamela previously, as she and her husband John only moved in a couple of months ago. They were older, retired, and well-established so they were able to split their time between Oakville, Vancouver and the Southern US. She told us their story and it was so beautiful, but also heartbreaking, that I can’t stop thinking about it. Without being exploitative, I’d like to share some of it.

She and John grew up together in Winnipeg. They were close friends, attended university together, and worked for the same Social Services office for a year after. They were friends with each other’s partners (who eventually became their respective spouses) and were just generally close. Years down the road, they reconnected through their children. They carried on with their lives and were both happy. In 2012, her husband passed away and she settled into a new life as a widower. Her children live in Calgary and Ottawa, but she maintained her residence on the West Coast. He and his wife had a large property close to here and one of his daughters lived in Burlington while his other daughter and son lived in Vancouver. About 3 years ago, his wife passed away unexpectedly. He started to split his time between Vancouver and his property here, travelling back and forth to visit his children.

One day in Vancouver, they reconnected. It had been some years since they had seen one another, and not since either’s spouse had passed away. Their long, old, close connection was still there and they realized that if something like that had managed to persist through all of the intervening years then it was probably worth paying attention to. Sure enough, they discovered quickly that what they actually felt for one another was love. They moved in together, and set about renovating a beautiful condo in Vancouver to be their “home base” when they weren’t here tending to his property or down south for the winter. One of their children is an architect and quarterbacked the renovation, and even though it was a frustrating 8-month long process, it was a labour of love. They were finally able to move in again in September. It was perfect timing because Pam and John had already decided that they wanted to be married. Over Thanksgiving weekend, in front of their delighted children and grandchildren and a few very good friends, they wed in Vancouver and celebrated that night in Point Grey. It wasn’t so much a wedding as it was a celebration of long-founded love and unexpected chances.

Pam and John came back to Ontario to check in on his property and spend some time with his daughter. Almost immediately after the wedding, hefell ill. He saw a series of doctors, and the diagnosis began as rheumatosis. Quickly it became apparent that he had secondary bone and prostate cancer and primary lung cancer. Within the space of a month, John had gone from being a happy, consistently healthy newlywed to a man entering a subsidized immunotherapy drug trial for lung cancer patients. His disease progressively worsened, and in December he contracted pneumonia that he was unable to fight. His bones would break when someone tried to help him into or out of a chair, and he wasn’t able to receive his immunotherapy medication while ill. Finally, after a rapid progression of the disease from asymptomatic to terminal in the space of 3 months, John passed away this past Saturday at the age of 78.

Remarkably only 4 days after his passing, Pam sat in our living room and told us this wonderful story of their lives that travelled oscillating paths: together, divergent, together again. It strikes me as cruel that after those paths finally met, they were only able to have 2 years together. She, in the numbness of her grief but with an unwavering voice, expressed joy at having found each other again and a deep sadness at not having enough time. “It was too short,” she said, almost to herself instead of us. She seemed resigned to the ephemeral nature of life and to the idea that she, once again, must redefine herself without the person that she chose to share her entire self with. She plans to travel to see her kids, spend some time packing up their belongings, and then returning to the place she calls “home”. She told us that she needs to spend some time figuring out who she is now.

I can’t stop thinking about Pam and John and their bittersweet story. It’s a cliched adage, but it’s true: life is fleeting. We only get a finite number of moments to enjoy; to make the most of; to make an impact. Everyone we cross paths with is someone who might cross our path again down the road. More than that, though, Pam got me thinking about the definition of ‘home.’ She didn’t use these words, but in the two years that she and John were together, home was wherever he was. Now that he is gone, home is where she feels a connection to him and their happiness. Home is fluidly defined. It can be where we grew up, where our families are, where our friends who become family are, where we get to be with the person we love. It can be a place that is made for us or one that we make for ourselves. Home is anywhere that you feel your heart is full, and it can always change. It isn’t a singular place or idea. And I think that because of that, you can always go home and that’s such a comforting feeling. It is the solidarity and solace that we all yearn for. I didn’t know Pam and John, but I have a feeling that their story will stick with me for a long time to come.

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