Reflecting on Unexpected Trips to Town
Living in Beaver Creek evokes ‘the simple life’. That is, until it doesn’t.
Sometimes life becomes a lot more complicated. And the instances that are complicated tend to be those in which emotions are heightened.
On a cold and snowy day two years ago this December, I received a phone call from my doctor. She was concerned about my blood test results. The word ‘cancer’ was used. She wanted me to drive to Whitehorse immediately for additional testing. So, I went. C was away working in another community, so I drove alone. It was a harrowing trip. In the weeks to follow, I’d have to make the trip several more times for various appointments.
After three trips to Whitehorse over a two-week span, I thought we were through the worst of it. I hoped we’d be back to our once-every-two-months trips to town for groceries and other essentials. Think again, Hilary, said the universe.
Following a particularly vigorous workout one Saturday afternoon days after returning from that last trip to Whitehorse, I did something that would cause yet another unexpected trip in. I’m a sweaty person. Stressful situation? Sweat moustache. Intense workout? Drenched clothes. Etcetera. Well, after this particular workout, my face was dripping. I wiped the sweat off and rubbed my eye. In hindsight, I must’ve really ‘given ‘er’ because when I looked in the mirror, I noticed a dent in my eyeball! It looked like I’d taken a mini-ice-cream scoop and scooped a bit of my eye out. I showed C and he was mortified. You have to go to the health centre, he told me. I protested. The health centre is staffed by one nurse and on the weekends, they’re on call for emergencies. This was hardly an emergency, I told him. I walked over to my friend’s house, and she agreed with him, telling me in no uncertain terms to get to the health centre ASAP. So, I did. Sure enough, it warranted a trip to the ER in Whitehorse. I cried when the nurse told me.
In that moment, I cursed the nearly 1000 km round trip. It felt hard. It meant finding last minute accommodations. Packing the truck. Driving in -30 darkness. It meant making arrangements for our dog and yet another weekend away from home.
Honestly, I love the drive to Whitehorse. The beauty is profound. Spectacular. Out of this world. I love the ritual C and I have created once every two months that involves the drive, a night at a hotel, dinner out, and an epic grocery haul. But this trip made me resentful of that distance, and I didn’t like that it did.
Nearly two years later, I find myself reflecting on that experience and others like it. I’ve talked to C and my friend in Beaver Creek about it. I’ve thought about it on my walks and on the quiet moments I have. I’ve considered to what extent I can or want to feel frustrated by such situations and whether it contradicts the deep love I have for the way we live.
A few weekends ago, our pup, Chilli, developed a golf-ball-sized lump on his chest. One moment it wasn’t there and the next it was. I panicked. The next day there was another one. A friend, who had worked as a vet tech, came over to look at them and when the vet’s office in Whitehorse opened on Monday, I called and was given the choice of an appointment a month away or an emergency appointment immediately. It’s Whitehorse. There aren’t a lot of veterinary offices. Thinking the lumps might contain a foreign body and might be the sign of an abscess, we didn’t want to risk infection by waiting, so we made the decision to head into Whitehorse.
Now, the logistics of planning a last-minute trip can be challenging. This particular trip meant two days off work for both me and C, it meant finding accommodations leading into a long weekend, and more. But worth it for Chilli, right?
Unfortunately, the results of these efforts were relatively fruitless: an acknowledgement that the clinic was too busy to do any detailed surgical investigation to identify the ‘foreign body’ and a request to return for surgery the following week on a day that was logistically impossible for us to make.
As frustrating as this all was, there was nothing that could be done. The vet clinic operates with back-to-back appointments, limited staff, and, based on what one of my favourite IG accounts, @thetinyvet, shares, possibly veterinary burnout.
I’ve talked at length about this situation with a friend and fellow Beaver Creeker. We lament that folks in the “city” (i.e., Whitehorse) often don’t understand what it takes for people in remote communities to accomplish the most banal tasks. But, on the other hand, why should they? Sometimes, I struggle with the idea of responsibility in these situations. While C and I initially despaired at the news that we’d be moving to Beaver Creek for his work, we are now very much here by choice. So, what responsibility do others have to understand us when we explain that we’re coming in from Beaver Creek and that we might need x, y, or z concession in order to make the appointment? I’d argue that they hold no responsibility and that it lies firmly on us.
But even still, that answer doesn’t sit right with me. C and I have a truck. We have pet insurance. We have the ability to take the day or days off work and the resources to afford a trip to town. In other words, we have privilege. For some, it’s not so easy. For some, this situation that we find stressful is even more stressful because the above requirements to “go to town” do not exist. They have no options.
Perhaps, at the most basic level, what is needed in these situations is empathy. Empathy for those, like the staff at the vet clinic who are doing their very best to accommodate all patients, and empathy for people who come a long, long way and perhaps require the support of friends, colleagues, and neighbours to make a trip for the scooped-out eyeball, the sick pet, or even just for groceries. It’s about compassion and compromise. For all of us.