Hope's Imperfection

Chapter 20: Return

I wasn’t fine.

My battle with leukemia began before my father’s. I was only four years old. I have flashbacks of a hellish year of chemotherapy and treatments. Thankfully my memory fails me, and most of my actual childhood memories begin a little later when I was finally well enough to start school. I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t always on my mind; will it reappear… is it gone?

Towards the end of the summer I sensed that my immune system was wearing down. Mother forever doted on me and constantly wanted to know how I was feeling. I think she knew when I returned from San Francisco that something might be wrong. Deep down I knew it too. A battery of tests began to show the telltale pattern of cell counts, and a new round of chemo was ordered.

I officially made it three weeks into my first semester at Loyola before it was time for me to take a leave of absence. I was enjoying my time at the school; the university cultivates a liberal arts focus but there was still time to specialize and hence I attended a few music classes which expanded on my interest in guitar. Alas, it wasn’t to be, and on October 1 I began making daily trips to Johns Hopkins University for treatment. My first batch of chemo was to take six weeks, giving me a short respite around Thanksgiving. This was the time when Sarah and her mother were to visit us in Baltimore. We weren’t sure if I would be healthy enough for that visit, but today was my last treatment and, surprisingly, I was feeling pretty well.

I told Sarah about my illness very soon after I received the diagnosis. We kept in touch daily through email and skype. Her companionship and energy were vital in my battle to get through the treatments. I enjoyed hearing about Sarah’s adventures in Chicago. She was relishing the college experience and had decided to study English and journalism. I could picture her as a hard-hitting reporter with the Chicago Tribune, asking all of the difficult questions and leaving corporate and political scoundrels in her wake.

Our main topic of conversation these past six weeks was Richard’s final volume, and in the evenings when I felt well enough I read her passages from the fourth and final diary. Richard’s life had become a big part of ours; after all, it was his diary and a few irrational clues from Lizzy McIntosh that I had to thank for bringing Sarah and me together.

Nothing of tremendous interest or intrigue occurred in Richard’s final decade. He moved to Pennsylvania and helped raise Rupert’s boys, Ian and Adam. He talked often about his estrangement from his daughter in Georgia and the distance between him and his son in San Francisco, but he continued to correspond with them to the end of his life. He also returned to his childhood home in Montreal, investigating old links into his family’s past.

One of my favorite passages from his diary occurred on October 15, 1871 on his visit to Montreal.

Whilst my American brothers were busy butchering each other on the battlefield a new nation, Canada, was founded. Incorporated is probably a better term; an act of British parliament decreed that a new constitution be put in place and a new county be observed. Hence Britain would no longer be required to provide costly security to its offspring colony, and the sharing of the costs between Canada East (Quebec) and Canada West (Ontario) would spare the English from investing further capital into the national railroad project. There was never a doubt regarding the name of the new nation. “Canada” had always been in the vernacular, even since I was a little boy. We used the word generically to denote our place or our village; it was a ubiquitous term which could be applied anywhere. My acquaintances in Montreal regale me with stories of the suggested names for the country being discussed in the fledgling parliament. These potential titles included Hochelaga and Tuponia, but they were never truly options; it was always going to be Canada.

Montreal is the city of my innocence, the place where the snow and ice cradled me before I was set forth into the winds of the world. I have been caught in the breeze ever since. I wish I could say, sitting in a café, amidst the cobblestone streets of Mont Royal, that I was home, but I have learned in all my travels that home is fleeting. A place is just where you live until you leave it, and then you may call it home. But when you return you realize that it will never be the same and therefore it is never home again. Life is an endless pursuit to return to a home that does not exist.

Still, I feel a sense of warmth and peace in Montreal that is uncommon for me in my travels. I have purchased a small plot for myself in a cemetery close to my mother and father’s old house in the city and have paid all expenses for my transport and burial. I have decided I would like to rest here, alone, and back where my journey began. I think of the graves I have prepared for Mother, Father and Rupert; it makes me feel tired and sad.

I realize there is irony in the peaceful feeling I cherish while residing in a city that manufactured the bullet that killed my son. Today, Montreal is teeming with Confederate war criminals. Much of Montreal’s commerce was generated through the production of armaments for the Civil War, purchased by Southern plantation owners and delivered to the Confederate soldiers in the south. In some perverse way, Canadians took sinful pride in the travails of the American republic and in fact delighted in finding ways to support the Confederacy and destabilize the Union. Myself, I am not political. I learned a long time ago on a river just west of Montana that life and the structures that govern our well-being are fleeting. Politics is just pragmatism, and it is no surprise that America’s Civil War was orchestrated by the most pragmatic of all politicians. Abraham Lincoln is now buried in his home state of Illinois, the victim of a gunshot by a notorious terrorist and former Montreal resident, John Wilkes Booth. Yet, the former president of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davies, bailed out of jail by a wealthy southern tycoon named Cornelius Vanderbilt, travels the globe and lives well in a mansion about an hour outside of Montreal. It is not unusual to see him in the city, surrounded by an entourage of well-wishers and enjoying the luxuries afforded by the reverence for his dubious past. In war it is not always the victors that receive the spoils.

The Stanhopes have always had a unique perspective on history.

Olivia took my illness the hardest. She was angry that I was unwell, and her characteristic laser focus for school work had consequently started to wane. She came with me to all my appointments to keep me company and organized an advent calendar in her room, counting down my treatments. Dutifully she updated the schedule every week when fevers and coughs conspired to change my timetable. With my body weathering the treatments, preparations were underway for Sarah’s visit. Mother had begun to plan all of the meals for the event, and Olivia had a schedule of activities punctuated with meals, activities and spontaneous bursts of free time. Frances held off the charge of relatives wishing to invade for a simultaneous visit. I was grateful.

“Philip, Lizzy McIntosh is on the phone,” my mother shouted from the kitchen.

“Got it, Mom,” I replied.

“Hi Philip, it’s Lizzy. How are you?”

“Fantastic. I am getting through my treatments well and I have a one-month hiatus before I return to the hospital for more,” I answered.

“That’s great, Philip. I was wondering if you had had any more thoughts about our discussions.” Lizzy probed.

“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you mean,” I answered.

“Okay, Philip, I understand. I’ll do my best,” said Lizzy.

I put down the phone and went back to my room. It would be a couple of hours before Sarah would be free for a chat. I picked up my guitar.