Sorry I can’t take your call, please leave a message

In October of 1988, a casual conversation in a hospital’s doctors’ lounge set in motion a concerted search for a cottage country property acquisition. An anesthetist colleague referred me to a realtor friend of his based out of Peterborough, Ont. Bob was able to cover a large swath of the Kawarthas thanks to his single engine Piper airplane. He was the proverbial “Sky King” of lake country. The initial phone call allowed me to introduce myself as Dr. Mike’s colleague and went on to outline the specs and wish list for our prospective cottage home. “Leave it with me, I’ll get back to you” was his response. The callback would take five months. In December of 1988, I received a phone call from my father, who along with my mother, were enjoying their first snowbird Florida winter in a newly acquired and freshly renovated condominium, finally realizing their long sought-after vacation-home dream. My dad informed me that my mother was unwell, necessitating a recent emergency department visit. The attending doctor opined that my mother was suffering with “hepatitis eh” his feeble attempt at Canadian humour. The culprit was thought to be the ingestion of “excessive shellfish.” Ever the skeptic, I asked that the ER labs be faxed to me for review. The panel of liver function tests suggested another, more ominous etiology, compatible with an obstructive bile duct process. I urged my parents to repatriate ASAP and arranged for my mother to be seen urgently by an Internal Medicine colleague on their return. They arrived home on Christmas Eve. The following day, my colleague consulted and promptly ordered a CT scan at Sunnybrook Hospital. Most community hospitals had yet to acquire such advanced and prohibitively expensive investigative technology. The diagnosis of pancreatic cancer shook our world. Management was relegated to relieving the obstructed common bile duct surgically. The jaundice subsided as did the diffuse itching associated with grossly elevated levels of bilirubin. The disease, however, had other designs on my mother’s prognosis. It progressed precipitously. On July 7, 1989, my mother died, ravaged by a cancer that often presents clinically at a stage well-beyond any hope of salvage. My mother’s six-month survival from time of diagnosis was sadly more the rule than the exception. In March of 1989 we presented an offer on a cottage property on Dickey Lake, having already viewed several properties on various lakes in the North Kawarthas. Bob had offered me to join him in the cockpit of his 2-seater Super Cub which I declined respectfully. I tend to do better on four wheels and solid ground. Our offer was accepted. We were thrilled with the rustic lakefront property and the prospects of providing our children with the understated aesthetics, natural beauty, family togetherness and memories so often associated with cottage life. We took possession of the cottage on June 6. My mother died one month later, never having seen it. Owning a cottage comes with endless responsibilities. Admittedly, I am not what one would consider “handy.” In fact, one of the prerequisites I had clearly stated to Bob when our search began, was “no handyman specials.” I have always found Cottage Life magazine a practical and informative resource for all things cottage. Septic tank management, heated water lines, structural additions, choosing contractors, succession planning, and rental agreements were all useful in the process of acclimatizing to and surviving in rural Ontario. Our son built a Muskoka chair from a template in one of the early issues. The elements-weathered pine chair has subsequently been moved indoors to preserve its natural beauty and structural integrity. Dickey Lake has always encouraged enduring friendships, some lasting almost four decades. The community has provided many opportunities to enhance collective participation, one of which was the annual curling bonspiel, usually held on the most frigid weekend of the winter, at January’s end or February’s beginning. It was always -28° C. Much effort went into preparing the lake’s frozen surface and creating a replica curling sheet, complete with pebbled surface, food colouring circles for the “house” and actual curling rocks, albeit the junior version. Those were days that will last forever in our treasure trove of memories. It was the unique notoriety of this event that captured the attention of Cottage Life magazine. It resulted in a reporter being dispatched to our tundra to attend and cover the excitement and pageantry of our annual event. It made the cover story of the Winter 2010-11 issue. One of the unexpected attendees that day was our realtor, Bob, who landed his ski plane on the frozen lake and taxied to a vantage point overseeing our historic sporting contest. Bob was singularly responsible for populating our lake with many cottagers over the years. His frequent fly-overs in the blue and white Piper became a regular summer sighting as he tipped his wings in acknowledgement of his lasting friendships. Bob died in January 2023 after 63 years at the controls of his beloved Piper. It’s been a dozen years since I last read a Cottage Life. That is until recently, when while flipping my way through Flipboard, a story attributed to Cottage Life magazine caught my attention. The story in the April 2023 issue was titled “Southwestern Ontario park installs wind phone to help those who are grieving.” I was intrigued. Apparently, there exists a popular locale for hiking, canoeing and fishing on the shore of Lake Huron, about an hour’s drive from London, Ont., called the Ausable River Cut Conservation Area. The new attraction this spring is a “wind phone,” an unconnected telephone booth, built of recycled wooden walls, a tin roof and a small bench for sitting. The “phone booth,” hidden within the dense forest and winding trails has a black push-button phone bolted to the wood but is unconnected. There is no dial tone, only silence when you place the handset to the ear. This is a “private space for one-way conversation.” Adjacent to the phone is an inscribed plaque that explains the purpose of this curious structure and design: “To give those grieving a lost loved one the opportunity to say goodbye.” Discussing death and loss is a private matter, often one not shared even with family or friends, yet one that in time can deny resolution and closure, exacerbating the depths and breadth of loss. The simplicity of this device, unconnected, provides opportunity to voice feelings, emotions and speak the elusive words unspoken at the ultimate interface of life with the reality of death. The poem inscribed on the plaque is “borrowed” from a Newfoundland wind phone: “Though I’ve lost you, I can hear your voice in the silent echoes of your absence. You speak to me through rustling leaves, whistling winds, and bowing branches. Though I’ve lost you, I feel you here in this shrine of trees in nature’s sanctuary. The Wind Phone is for all who grieve. You are welcome to find solace here. Please use it to connect with those you have lost. To feel the comfort of their memory. You may hear their voices in the wind. May you be at peace with your losses.” The idea for the wind phone is attributed to Japanese architect Itaru Sasaki dating back to 2011. His original structure was built outside Otsuchi, Japan, as a way to grieve the loss of his cousin from cancer. On March 11, 2011, the area was devastated by an earthquake and tsunami which claimed the lives of nearly 20,000 people! The catastrophic losses in the natural disaster brought thousands to Sasaki’s wind phone. The concept has since expanded across continents, answering the emotional needs of people to somehow maintain their relationships with deceased loved ones and speak the words previously unspoken. I was moved by the story, in fact shaken to some extent. How often do we regret not having made those eleventh hour phone calls or visits to a friend or loved one in the final hours? Having failed to express our feelings or thoughts, relive precious moments which only we, the living, have the opportunity of carrying forward. Apologies never rendered. Emotions felt but never realized. Guilt to be carried as a burden, unnecessary, unresolved. Even just a casual conversation, about nothing earth shattering, yet one that would have had meaning, importance or lasting connectivity. We feel “sorry” for the omissions, but sadly are unable to change them. If only we had spoken when our words could be heard. Retirement has allowed me unconstrained time, for contemplation, introspection and reflection. In times of solitude, here at the cottage by the lake, as our 34th summer rapidly approaches, I think about the calls not made in timely ways or not made at all. To my mother, to tell her of the magnificence of the lake and the land and the forever memories. To my father, although he briefly enjoyed the sights and sounds and comfort of the cottage and the friendship of our neighbours in his time of grief soon after my mother’s passing. His cottage days were limited by a progressive malignancy intent on interrupting life’s quality and length of years. He loved to talk of his days in the sun but our conversations were abruptly ended. The cottage life is one of calm. It is a productive space to read or write, paddle a kayak along a rocky shoreline or gaze in awe at another brilliant sunset. I’d like to make some calls today, continue dialogues or begin some new ones. I check my contacts. The list of those no longer “available” has grown. I’d leave a message, but . . . A wind phone might just be the answer.

Sorry I can’t take your call, please leave a message

Register for free access or login.

More Blog Posts in This Series

Doing time: Hallway medicine is out of hand

Senescence

The patient doctor: Leaving my MRI distraction playlist behind

Blog Author

HOWARD GOLDSTEIN

Related Topics