Eastbound

Kayla and I lived in that apartment in New West, happily, for a year and a half. Me and my Peachland girl were back and forth to Seattle every now and again for a weekend here and there—livin’ it up! The one who had been through the mill. Her and I were tight, long before Chet came out. She was the second friend I met out there one night at a club. Several years later, she realized she wasn’t about that life, it wasn’t for her. She got a job at the casino, which was a huge deal at the time—a riverboat casino opened at the bottom of the pier in New West. She was tall, blonde, very attractive—she was making bank at the casino in tips! She had a daughter a few years younger than Kayla and ended up having another daughter from a different dude, not Scotian and not Jamaican.

She got her shit together and was working a square job on the night shift. I used to watch her baby girl and sometimes her other daughter too if she wasn’t with her dad. Things were calm—life was good. I was steady in the gym those days. If ever I was happy or felt peace in my life, it was then.

We had five different homes in B.C. over six and a half years, not including my uncle’s home for the first three months when we arrived. This would be the last. Moving had been a constant in our lives long before we got to B.C. By the time Kayla was four, we had already had eight different addresses—sadly, it was the fucking norm for us. I was a mother who grew up with minimal to no guidance. I was always moving. I didn’t know how to sit still.

Kayla was eight, turning nine at this time. The whole time we were in B.C., she was back and forth between B.C. and T.O. for family visits—mostly on her dad’s side and quite frequently. She was a happy girl; she was a happy baby!

I had a data entry position out West with Pacific Press, the newspaper out there. No more Chet, no more company, and no more of his bullshit—we were good! The boys would still pop in and check on us every now and again, both Scotians and Jamaicans. Mostly Boz, making sure we were good.

Kayla started losing an excessive amount of weight and experiencing symptoms. Her stomach would hurt. She would crouch down, hold, squeeze tight, go to the bathroom, and release—whatever was inside of her that wanted out. It had a pungent stench, like a sewer. This was on and off for a year.

After doctor appointments, stool tests, and blood tests—finally, one of the doctors, almost a year later, ordered a barium swallow. It’s a test where you swallow a chalky substance and stand in front of some sort of X-ray machine, which shows your intestines and determines whether you have Crohn’s or Colitis. And sure enough, she had Crohn’s Disease.

I got the call at work. I literally fell over off my chair onto the floor. I had already researched it and knew what it was all about—that it was painful, chronic, and there was no cure for it.

My perfect little girl was sick with a disease she’d have to live with for the rest of her life. I had never felt more hopeless. I was a mess. I took it a lot worse than she did!

When it came to treatment, we had two options: Steroids—which only mask the symptoms and came with a shitload of side effects—or NG tube feeding, with the side effects mostly being psychological. Outside of that you heal, you become nourished and well again. We weighed out her options and discussed it, thoroughly, for days. Kayla ultimately chose tube feeding, which, in my opinion, was the right choice to make, I was hoping that she would and that it would work out.

An extremely brave decision she made at 10 years old. I was happy she went this route—I did not want to see my 10-year-old daughter go through hormonal changes alongside roid rage.

She went on tube feeding for three months at a time. She slid a long, thin rubbery tube up her nostrils, down her throat, and into her stomach. She was pumped with approximately 3,000 calories in an IV bag on a pole overnight—over 12–13 hours, slowly.

Every single night for three months. No solids, just liquids, broth, clear fluids. That was giving the intestine a break from solids, an opportunity to heal—and it worked—until it came back. And it always did.

She went into the treatment like a fucking champ! She embraced it, accepted it. She was so strong, a lot stronger than I was. I can remember clear as day—her watching the video tutorials on how to insert the tube into her nose, laughing and being silly like it was fun. Watching her—my world was falling apart—I was falling apart—to the point where the nurse had to ask me to leave the room.

Kayla was handling it so calmly, so attentively, like it was a fun project. She got the hang of it quick. They said, “We don’t usually see this response—She’s gonna be great!”

She started treatment right away after being diagnosed. First they put her on a pill form, medication called Pentasa. They said it’s a long-standing medication, meaning it takes a long time to do its thing, but that pill was going to be the base medication every day from now on. 

Everything was happening fast. One thing I can say about British Columbia Hospital for Sick Children—it was a completely different experience than we had at Toronto Sick Kids! They treated Kayla like she was dipped in gold! Proper! Everyone raved about Sick Kids in Toronto—telling me that’s where she should be—what a fucking sham Sick Kids turned out to be!

There’s not a doubt in my mind that the treatment she received from the nurses at B.C. Children’s Hospital contributed to her embracing tube feeding and was so good at it from the hop. They actually cared, and it showed.

Once this tube-feeding business settled into my brain, one day I was staring at the IV pole and thinking to myself, I can’t fucking do this alone. I need help! Kayla had a lot of family members on her dad’s side. They were always good to her—I loved that for her, and she needed them.

My side of the family, outside of my three uncles, had never been much help. However, I was in touch with my mom, at that time and there was a promise of receiving help if I came back to Toronto. I also felt the pressure from her dad’s side; they were making me feel guilty, selfish for living in Vancouver when she needed to be with family.

Kayla loved Toronto. She loved going back to Toronto. She had expressed more than once that she wanted to live in Toronto—so what’s a mother to do? I had the doctors telling me that Crohn’s Disease is caused by stress! We were fucking tight! It was Kayla and me against the world, always! I had never seen a little girl happier than Kayla—smiles all the time, her whole demeanor. The only stress she had at that time was becoming the May Fair Queen, and that spot was fucking hers until she got sick. Once the school found out she had Crohn’s Disease they eliminated her from everything! Track & field, the extracurriculars, including becoming the May Fair Queen. Claiming she was too weak. She was still upbeat and energetic considering what she was going through. She wasn’t sluggish or showing signs of fatigue, not then. There was no fucking stress. I couldn’t see any stress. The stress began when the Crohn’s began—for both of us!

Ultimately, Crohn’s Disease is hereditary. Everybody can fuck off with the stress! That’s the quick fucking answer to every fucking disease and every illness—stress, stress, stress! It’s fucking hereditary! Do you know what it’s like hearing that?! That your kid is sick because she’s stressed! When your child is stricken with an illness like that—you already blame yourself and feel like total shit! It isn’t necessary to add insult to injury! Not when it’s fucking HERIDITARY! I was fucking beyond stressed, and if anything, my stress was stressing her out.

Me being in my 20s, I was thinking, if my daughter is stressed, how do I fix that? How about I eliminate some of this “stress,” they’re speaking of—bite the bullet, move back to Toronto, and put her where she wants to be mentally so it can help her physically. Let’s get rid of the “stress” so my little girl can be happy, and the Crohn’s would fuck off. That’s what I was thinking.

I never wanted to come back to Toronto and never, ever saw myself coming back. Every time I came back to Toronto for a visit—“I’m here for a good time, not a long time..” That was my song! I couldn’t wait to leave! Toronto was always full of gossip, sneaky two-faced gossip, drama. Ya, B.C. had its moments, but it wasn’t gossipy out there—that was the different vibe the West Coast had going on.

Everyone in T.O. was smoking cigarettes like a champ—stressed! Nobody out West really smoked cigarettes—always weed. Chill vibes. Nobody in B.C. gave a fuck about what you did or what you were doing; they were too busy concerned with themselves, doing their own thing. But in Toronto, everybody’s got a fucking opinion, fucking miserable, trying to get in everybody’s business, stirring up shit. I had lived a very different life for the past 6-7 years without that shit in my life. I wasn’t the same person I was when I left. I was rid of the big chip I had on my shoulder that was there forever and as soon as I came back—sadly, so did that chip!

I wasn’t looking forward to moving back. I was devastated to make that move, but when you're a parent—ain’t shit about you, and this wasn’t about me at all.

Kayla’s dad, Lee had a two bedroom apartment that he was subletting to a friend in Scarborough. It was his apartment, but Lee was living with his parents in Mississauga and letting his friend sublet it. His friend wasn’t even paying him fucking rent, he was getting punked off. I told Lee, "Get homeboy out—Kayla and I are coming back. Your daughter needs family—we need an apartment, make it happen—we’re coming back!”

Lee kicked buddy out. I sold most of my stuff and shipped out the rest to that address in Scarborough, it was right by Warden Stn., Santamonica Blvd. the two-bedroom apartment Kayla and I were moving into.

As soon as I shipped my shit out—I called Lee and told him when to expect it along with the details. He told me right then and there over the phone that he moved in!! The fucking two-bedroom apartment that was for Kayla and I! The fucking apartment I told him to clear out! He told me he was fucking comfortable and didn’t wanna leave, and I was welcome to stay there with him for however long I wanted to!

NO! NO! NO! NO! FUCKING NO!!!!!!

That wasn’t the fucking plan. I did not wanna fucking live with Lee! I couldn’t even stand looking at his fucking face at that point in my life.

We flew back a few days later. I remember arriving at the airport. Our flight was hella early, like 45 minutes to an hour, and Lee was picking us up, and of course, he was a fucking hour late. I was already sad. He pulled up, Kayla went to get into the backseat, and I told her, "No, no, you go in the front, sit with your dad." I sat in the back, and as he drove off, I started bawling, sobbing uncontrollably, bawling. That was it, no more Vancouver.

I had nowhere to go. My homegirl from back in the day—Kayla’s Godmother—said that we could stay with her until we figured shit out, but I soon figured out some other shit had been going on while I was out West. Staying with her wasn’t a viable option.

Kayla was gone now, I barely saw her. For the next three months when we got back, she was always at her dad’s house or her grandma’s house. I was a fucking mess! Sleeping here, sleeping there. I had no idea where the fuck I was going or what I was doing.

I left T.O. during a recession, came back almost 7 years later, and it had turned into a fucking Mega City. Couldn’t get an apartment unless you had a job—I needed pay stubs. How the fuck do you get a job when you have nowhere to fucking live? I was all West Coast vibes. Came back to the East and it was a fucking nightmare!

I was at my Uncle Gary’s house one day visiting. His daughter Jen, my cousin, is the same age as Kayla. They were close before we left for B.C. and they picked up right where they left off when we returned. It was The Taste of the Danforth time. I never even knew about festivals like that in Toronto; it was all new to me. Gary knew what the fuck was going on with me—I was pretty much fucked. But, Kayla was good, her three months of tube feeding were over—she was her bouncy self, eating solids again.

Gary had just bought a house on Mortimer Ave, a bungalow. The basement wasn’t completely finished, but it was newly carpeted and clean, and the walls were newish. There wasn’t a kitchen or bathroom or anything like that, but there was a huge living space, and my uncle offered it to me. He said, “I know it’s not much, but if you and Kayla wanna stay here until you get on your feet, you’re welcome to have the basement.” Pretty sure I cried. I’m telling you like an angel, he saved me and that was not the first time Gary came to my rescue! 

That move was fucking huge for me, it felt like 20 steps backwards. I did not want to be in Toronto. I had outgrown my friends. We weren't riding the same wavelength anymore. I didn’t want to be in Toronto. I was in a messy way for a while—until I got pregnant with Trent!

It was the beginning of November, and I knew it right away! I knew I was pregnant. I knew the symptoms. I knew how it felt. I knew I was pregnant. I had an ectopic pregnancy in 1999 that advanced far enough to burst my fallopian tube which resulted in emergency surgery. They took out an ovary and a fallopian tube. The doctor said the chances of me ever having another child were slim to none.

But there I was, Fertile Myrtle—pregnant again. I never imagined a life with two children. I never thought I could even get pregnant, and I certainly wasn’t trying to have another kid while I already had a 12-year-old!

Feeling that life inside me empowered me. Gave me hope, gave me faith, gave me strength. It let me know I wasn’t worthless.

I wasn’t messy anymore.

I was on a mission.