Canada, The start of it all

It is five years since I hung up my boots and helmet; my, how time flies! This is the story of how I overcame the grief that pierced me to the core following the death of my wife on October 26th 2005 at 7.10pm in The Queen Elizabeth II Hospital, King's Lynn, Norfolk. That grief caused me to breakdown at my desk at work one year later, but for a day. My personal pagan beliefs forbid me suicide, or I would have taken that ride instead! My motorcycle trip would needs fill the time until the pain in my heart became bearable.

 

My wife died in my arms that evening in October. The day had a bright, mild, autumnal feel about it outside; family members were arriving at the small side ward and chatted to each other casually. Inside the room a scene of Wagnerian proportions was taking place as forces beyond me stretched down and beckoned the spirit inside my wife's poor ravaged body to leave and move on. Her Earthly journey was now complete.

 

"I love you but I want to go now." she gasped in a barely audible whisper, with that certain stubborn look she  sometimes had.

 

"Okay darling," I replied holding her close, "wait for me on the other side."

 

Gazing straight at me a feint smile flickered across her face and she let out a long slow sigh as the lights of life dimmed and disappeared. I was alone, as I knew I would be in the end as we struggled through her brief and intense fight with cancer together. Her spirit seemed to hover above her for a few seconds before I bade it farewell with all the positive love I could muster at that moment after our 35 happy years together.

Chris, when we were young.

 

A year later and the pain suddenly burst out of me, I had to get away and find myself again. Had to re-establish my identity and find out the purpose my life has, if any. Was I just a freak of random chemical reactions that had found sentience, or could there be a higher purpose to existence? I was prepared to place my fate into the hands of the gods, not caring one way or the other what way the chips came down. Maybe, just maybe they could show me a glimpse of our purpose for being here, or not.

 

"Who are you now?" kept ringing through my head. "You have no function, your family has grown and although people love you in their way, it is not in the same way that wraps you up in a blanket of love and mutual dependency that I used to know."

 

"I must go!"

 

But let's not be totally reckless here, I maybe stupid, but I'm not unintelligent. I would start in Canada just in case the earnest faith I had in my inner light was misplaced and I ended up a gibbering wreck.

 

The following July, clad in my motorcycle boots and touring jacket I stepped off the aeroplane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. It was, and still is, a wonder to me that as vast and wide as the Atlantic Ocean is, it was further from here in Halifax to Vancouver than it was from Halifax to London which I had left just a few hours earlier.

 

My motorbike, a secondhand BMW f650, (named Christine, after my wife, and not after the horror story), was following me by sea and I still blush at the scene at the docks at Southampton when disembarking from the Transit van. I over-balanced on the plank and crashed to the floor sideways. Not an auspicious start.

 

In the weeks and months (months and weeks?) preceeding my departure I had sold my house and most of my belongings, made a will, said farewell to family and friends, convinced them that I knew what I was doing, had several trips for inoculations, nearly missed the flight and was now standing in the Immigration and Customs queue at Halifax Airport. Perhaps now my adventure could begin.

-ooOoo-

Tomorrow, the sad tale of the man in the queue.