My old neighbouhood and friends in Park Place were just a thirty minute drive across town from our downtown apartment, but it may as well have been on the moon for how distant it seemed to me. I missed them.

I was pretty good at living on my own and taking care of myself, but I missed the greens of our old neighbourhood, the lawns, the evergreen trees, and the smell of the bark mulch laid down in the gardens. Downtown seemed like nothing but grey cement, brown brick, car exhaust, and the noise of trucks clattering through busy intersections.

Nearing the winter of 1984, I was not gainfully employed, living on Dad’s money and using his debit card (at his suggestion) to keep the fridge stocked and the rent and utilities paid. When I wasn’t visiting Dad in the hospital, I had nothing to do but keep our little apartment tended to, go for walks, or read.

I was worried about my Dad, but I also appreciated the freedom and independence afforded by his absence. I’d spend my time reading magazines about psychology, writing in my diary, and focusing on improving my drawing skills. Each day, I’d give myself some sort of task – usually a walking day trip to a sketching opportunity. It felt good to keep moving; I always kept my pens and pencils with me whenever I went out.

I liked standing on the nearby bridges, either Burrard or Granville Streets, and getting a high-elevation view of my city. It was like I wanted the “big picture” or the lay of the land, practically and symbolically. I wanted to stop and take a considered look at things at my own pace. Often, I’d walk across the Granville street bridge and at the south end, turn down underneath and go to Granville Island.

In the fall and winter months after my first summer job riding tourists around Granville Island on a pedicab, “the island” (really a man-made peninsula) had become a happy neighbourhood for me to visit. I’d regularly hang out in the Blue Parrot Cafe in the public market, enjoying a coffee and muffin, and drawing the people around me in my sketchbook. It made me feel like I was learning something useful, and exploring a fascinating new language. I told myself that sketching in public cafes is what artists had been doing for hundreds of years. I started to identify with the role of art student. I felt like I was becoming one of them, and I really wanted to be.

While Dad was back in Burnaby General Hospital after his latest stroke, I had kept our cupboards stocked and the carpet vacuumed as if he would be coming home again next week. In truth, I had no idea how long he’d be away this time, or if he’d ever even return home. The future was just a big mystery.

I had the place to myself and was on my own a lot. It was a sweet taste of freedom and independence, mixed with a bitter undertone of loneliness and isolation. The irony was that I was at the right age to start being truly independent, but all the circumstances that had caused my current state of independence had been completely outside of my control, and connected to my Dad’s risk of death. Whether I had been ready for it or not, my adult independence was happening.

On and off since I was seventeen, Dad’s heart and attack and strokes had forced me to step up and keep our little household running. It had left me feeling like I had to be ready to react to whatever might happen. Meanwhile, all his health trauma had left my Dad more frail and less confident than ever. It meant that my Dad’s era as the boss of the home was winding down. It made me worry about what our future would hold, and how much future there might even be.