‘When the goings get tough, the tough get tougher.’
For the better part of my life, I thoroughly believed that I upheld the ideals of this quote. Troubles with school, work, friends, boys? I somehow always found a way to manage them. Through blood, sweat and (sometimes) tears, I managed to make a problem that felt like the end of the world, better. ‘I work my best under pressure,’ I often say, reassuring my roommate that it’s possible for me to attend two events and get an essay done in one night; and somehow I do.
But that all changed this January.
I had been rushing to get ready to volunteer when I got a call from my Dad. Before he could even tell me what he had to say, I felt the need to tell him how I was in a rush, and just how busy I was; all with things now so irrelevant that I can’t even recall them.
“You’re grandpa has cancer,” he said quietly, when he was finally able to get a word in edgewise. In that moment, when I broke down, I didn’t care about being late, or impressing a contact, or whatever I had been thinking about a few minutes ago… I didn’t feel tough, and I certainly didn’t feel any tougher.
I missed a close friend’s 21st birthday the day I found out he had liver cancer. I forgot to bring all of my textbooks the day that my mother unexpectedly showed up at my house to tell me that he wasn’t going to undergo treatment. I didn’t respond to friends, and even worse, work contacts, for a few days after my family moved him into palliative care…
When he died, I spent a lot of time just sitting, not responding to emails, engaging with people, or working – just nothing. I didn’t feel tough during any of those times, and I still don’t feel tough now. For the very first time in my life, I haven’t fixed a tough situation by putting more pressure onto myself. Thats not to say that I didn’t try… but the more work that I tried to pile onto myself to ‘make things better,’ just made things worse…. My computer is currently littered with half written articles that I started to ‘get my mind off things,’ and then just couldn’t finish. I was lost.
My grandfather was such a great man. He had the spirit of a child. That joy stretched across his face when caaught frogs at the cottage, and when he had people roaring with laughter while telling a story. He had a cottage that my brother and I went to as children; which he made a magical place for us, using his imagination to make everything into a story — an adventure. He even used to hitch a small trailer onto the back of his John Deer tractor and fill it with pillows for us to sit in, as he drove the tractor up the laneway. This laneway was surrounded by forest, so he would tell us stories of the mythical creatures that resided in it, swerving the tractor back and forth just to add to the fairytale. Even as a child who was fortunate to go to Disney every single March break, this was the most exciting, believable adventure there was.
When I was nine, my parents bought the cottage two-over from my grandparents, which we started to live at during the entire summer. For nine years, I saw my grandpa every single day of the summer, and when I was too old to believe that there were trolls in the forest, he began to teach me about history, nature, really anything I was interested in at the time instead… and when it was time for me to go off to university, he sat patiently with me and gave me advice – as I neurotically chose my course schedule.
He grew with me, and meant so much to me, that I still can’t believe he’s gone…
And while I might not be getting any tougher by taking on more work – in being with friends, going to my classes, and even writing this article, I feel I am slowly gaining my toughness back.