(From Connexion Newsletter Fall/Winter 2024)

They were quite the odd couple. She sashayed in like the queen, her hair freshly coiffed and wrapped in a floral scarf. She was dramatic, full of vim and vigor. He shuffled in like a country bumpkin, a perpetual grin plastered on his joyful face. She led. He followed.

At first, I thought they were husband and wife. Nope. Brother and sister? Nope.

They were childhood friends from way back when Kamloops was a three-street town. Their family farms were adjacent. They played together, met at the pond, wasted many afternoons skipping rocks across the water until the sun went down. He was simple and content. She was grandiose and loved all things American.

They grew up. She met an American man and was whisked off, her floral scarf holding down coiffed hair as she rode in a convertible all the way down to Alabama where she raised a family and built up a real estate company.

He stayed in Kamloops, took care of his parents and never married. In the midst of these two completely different lifestyles, they stayed in touch through letters and the occasional long-distance phone call at 24 cents a minute.

Time marched on. Her kids grew up. Her husband left. She was divorced, empty-nested and wealthy. His parents passed away. He sold the family farm to pay off debts and became homeless. She learned of this, packed up her life in Alabama, bought a house on West Battle Street, and moved the two of them into it.

This is how I met them. An odd couple in their 70s, fighting like married spouses and cohabiting like brother and sister, held together by the bond of childhood friendship.

Eventually, with advancing time and age, they began to accrue three-letter diseases: HTN, TIA, CVA, CHF, CKD, MCI and NCD. One day, I brought her in to discuss care planning and she informed me that her daughters would be moving her into a posh nursing home in the Californian desert.

She made a two-stage plan to move him into an apartment for seniors while they waited for a spot in a local nursing home. We didn’t talk much about her care plan. She was here to ensure that I knew what to do after she was whisked off to California, which, by the way, she would be travelling to in a convertible, her hair wrapped in a floral scarf.

Many years later, I was at that nursing home and saw him sitting in the lounge. He did not recognize me. As I was leaving, I turned to wave goodbye, but his eyes were distant, that perpetual grin plastered on his peaceful face. I knew he was at the edge of the pond, skipping rocks with a little girl who wore a floral scarf.

This odd couple taught me that love comes in different shapes and sizes. Love just shows up. When space and time robbed them of their bodies and minds, love showed up and remained.

— Dr. Allison Chung