Cottage Day

After all the hard work of Friday and Saturday, last night I took myself out to my favourite bistro, La Brasserie, for dinner. I got home at 8:45 pm and was so tired I went to bed. Not long afterwards I was sick with food poisoning. Sigh.

But today’s a new day. I get to see the “perfect” home and (after prudent thought) I hope to make my offer.

I got some very good from Patsy L., who lives on Gabriola. I’ve known her forever; she’s a very good friend of Beth and this is what she wrote to me:

“We also have a really wonderful medical clinic (built by volunteers, owned by the community) with three fantastic doctors (one was a long time ER doctor, is a terrific diagnostician, and we have a heli pad as well as an urgent care clinic and a really great team of paramedics on the island). And in the basement of the medical clinic, we have a lab and a dental office, social services office, etc. We also have our own pharmacy in the village, headed by a truly dedicated pharmacist who is also a volunteer fireman. Really, this island gets better service than you could expect in a big city, as far as GPs and emergencies go. Lots of alternative medical practitioners, too, of course, but we have to go to Nanaimo for medical specialists.”

I’ve been buying nearly all my meals for the past eighteen months — since my breakdown. Moving is going to send me back into the kitchen. I’ve made a note to buy a freezer so I can bulk bake and freeze food for quick re-heating.

This is a life-long dream coming true — not without a little apprehension. But it has long been my ambition.

I used to go to sleep every single night from as far back as I can remember until about ten years ago, dreaming of “escapes” — that’s what I called them. There have been three such places: When I was a child and through my teens and early twenties, it was a rope locker; in mid life it was a forest fire watching station and as I got older it was a little “English” countryside cottage. For decades, I thought of one of these places every single night to fall asleep. It was my version of counting sheep.

So, for my seventieth birthday this December, I’m giving myself the opportunity to live the life I’ve always longed for. I’m buying my cottage. I’m not truly moving to live that dream; I’m moving because of PTSD. It just took my condition to get me to finally act on my core desire.