Taking Back Winter

Anyone from my community needn't reach far into their memories for the PTSD that resides there, surrounding what we deemed a near-naughty word last year, "winter". I shudder as I recall it in my memories now, on the cusp of December 2024, a 100-year storm event dumped three month's worth of accumulation of snow within three days. In like a lion, winter reared it's ugly head, burying us deep in it's layers of white, closing highways and stranding people all over our roads. We pulled people and branches off roads, we dug neighbours out, we shoveled rooves, driveways and paths. We lit candles and huddled under blankets while clutching steaming mugs of tea, coffee and hot chocolate. We waited impatiently for power restoration for days. We tapped on parked transport truck doors to see if a lonely driver inside would care for a warm drink or meal. We opened our homes to strangers, and reluctantly, we got through the worst of it.

The winter tapered into a steady onslaught of grey and white after that, as the New Year began and the weeks rolled by. Then in February, our youngest daughter was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma. That day, February 13th, we huddled together in a dimly lit doctor's office waiting for the results of a chest x-ray, not quite comprehending her words as she relayed the terrifying diagnosis. "You need to leave for the city immediately." Her words bounced around the room, not quite landing in our ears properly. We somehow managed to scramble home, figure out care for our pets and older daughter, and start the two-hour trek down the highway to the city's children's hospital in the dark. I don't remember much from that night, except fat snowflakes falling in clumps onto the windshield, the blue flashing lights and pinging noise of the snowplows, and gnawing on a single sweet potato fry, trying to convince myself that while my stomach felt sick with this news, I should probably eat something.

The remainder of that winter (and spring and summer), we made that trek down the highway to the hospital every other week for chemotherapy. Through snow, and sleet and freezing rain. Sunny days that reached -20 degrees Celsius, and milder snow-packed days where windshield washer fluid was used plentifully, and subsequently rationed for fear of running out. During that time, we would peer out of the hospital windows at the outdoor skating rink filled with families, first-dates and tourists all enjoying their winter. What I wouldn't give to trade places with any of them in that moment... Meanwhile, we walked through our days in shock, the brisk air the only thing snapping us out of our robotic state.

The winter of 2025 ended with another 100-year storm event, this time an ice storm. We held our breath peering out our bedroom windows as heavy pine branches snapped and fell from the weight of the ice every few minutes. Each crash sent us jumping and our German shepherd shivering in our shower from fear. That sound of branches snapping and crashing will live rent free in my head forever as a haunting anthem to such a terrible year. Another round of days-long power outages, of assessing damage to rooves, to vehicles and the mess...the debris of pine and birch branches that lay strewn across lawns and roads everywhere.

Eventually, the winter retreated, melting away, seeping into the Earth and left us feeling like the branchless trunks of pines surrounding us - defeated, raw and shaking with the winter war we'd just experienced.

As summer gave way to fall, I began feeling that unease creep into my bones. The memories of the previous winter and the PTSD I didn't realize I had until the first weather alert mentioned snow in the forecast. We prepared our property as best we could - cutting down gardens, putting away the patio furniture and taking apart the trampoline. We looked ready, but did we "feel" ready? To help mentally prepare, I purchased the book, How to Winter by Kari Leibowitz, and devoured each page in hopes of changing my mindset and looking to enjoy this winter. I planned future snow activities like skiing, skating and snow-tubing, and booked a cabin that backs onto a skating trail for the end of the season as a last hurrah, putting these events on my calendar to tell myself this winter will be different.

Our daughter finished her final round of chemotherapy in August and had a follow-up appointment at the beginning of December 2025. As we drove down the highway towards the city, I couldn't help but remember how different the landscape looked at this time last year. How much had transpired over the course of those months, both externally and internally for us. We arrived at the hospital later that morning, and after some bloodwork and an overall assessment, our daughter was deemed officially in remission by her team of Doctors and rang the bell loudly in celebration. It signified an end of such a difficult season. It was a turning of a page, an end of a chapter, and for us, it was official, we were taking back winter.