I Don’t Want to Grow Old in Canada

“Well, hopefully, interest rates will go down next year, and someone will be able to afford our house…”

“Are you considering selling?” I asked my friend, trying to balance my Brazilian café com leite, a cigarette and the phone because I didn’t have my earphones, this was a “let’s catch up, I have unexpected free time” kind of call.

“Yes. I mean, we’re turning fifty. Our oldest is going to graduate from high school. It’s time to go home. We’re not going to die in Canada!”

The sentence resonated with me, not just because it was uncharacteristically dark coming from one of my most upbeat friends but because she put something I had yet to admit myself into words.

Like me, she’s been living in Canada for over two decades. Like me, she gave birth in Canada and raised kids who speak her mother tongue but don’t know their parents’ motherland that well. Like me, she embraced life in Canada.

But she doesn’t want to die in Canada.

Yeah.

I don’t want to die in Canada either.

It just doesn’t make sense—the Canada part, not the dying one.

I know what it means to grow old because well, I’m 41. I also know what getting seriously old means because I had grandparents until very recently.

The pandemic taught me—and probably you—a few things. At one point between the waves and variants, the lockdowns and stay-at-home orders, we realized we were just in the right life and place… or not.

I’m the “not” team. This is when my motto became “I won’t die in fucking Ottawa.”

I didn’t mean it literally… but now, I kind of do.

Oh, Gosh. This is not a comfortable conversation to have with myself or with the people closest to me—with myself because talking about growing old and dying is accepting it’s not just something happening to everybody else but me, and with other people because they may hold very different perspectives on the matter.

It’s kind of like making a will. It feels like a jinx, which is probably why my beloved Papi and Mamie never bothered and left us to deal with a complete mess and to decide where to bury them. Yeah, make a will, people. Why do you ask, of course I don’t have one!

But I’m pretty sure I don’t want to die in Ottawa.

That’s a start. Put that on top of my will.

I mean, why would I want to grow old in Canada?

Sure, I’m Canadian, and I’ve been living in Canada for twenty years. I have amazing friends in Canada and I do enjoy some aspects of my Canadian life.

On the other hand… everything else.

From a practical perspective, extreme weather and old age don’t seem to mix very well (unless it’s truly your culture). I mean, I find winters challenging now. Senior me will be freezing constantly and icy sidewalks will be a real hazard.

I will also probably need healthcare services and some kind of support, and I don’t think I can count on Canada for that. My experience with the Canadian healthcare system is abysmal, from hours spent at the walk-in clinic with baby and toddler Mark to complete disregard for actual concerns. I don’t have a doctor. I’ve never been able to talk with a Canadian healthcare professional for more than five minutes. As for support, forget it. I couldn’t get any when I was calling for help with baby Mark.

Most importantly, I have parents and siblings in France, and I want to share moments with them. My parents are still in their sixties but I want to be here for them, eventually.

I plan to keep on travelling for as long as I can, and I have little pieces of my heart scattered in unlikely places around the world, but ultimately, France is home. It’s my 老家, as the Chinese say.

Did I fail somewhere? Isn’t Canada supposed to be home after twenty years? Am I betraying Canada?

Between us, I think the Canadian government is probably relieved that some immigrants aren’t planning to grow old in Canada—old folks are expensive.

And I’m not betraying Canada. I feel I have a quid pro quo agreement with the country. Sure, I was allowed to stay and granted another passport but I’ve also been paying taxes and working continuously for the past 20 years. I’ve never enjoyed any kind of benefits—employment insurance, maternity leave, etc.—except for four Canada Emergency Response Benefit (CERB) payments early in the pandemic, but that’s it. I’ve been self-employed for 12 years, so I have no employer pension.

I don’t think I owe Canada anything—Canada isn’t a person, anyway.

I do care very much about two Canadians in my life, though—Feng and I Mark.

Canada is home to Mark. I have no idea where he will eventually choose to go to university and live.

Canada is also home by default for Feng, who lost his Chinese citizenship a long time ago. Does he plan to grow old in Canada? This is not a conversation we’re going to have now because it’s not the right time.

It’s not like I have a plan, anyway.

I just know I don’t want to die in Canada… and I hope I have as long as possible to accomplish as much as possible because, in the meantime, I have dreams and hope.

♥ Curiosity makes for good stories.

Stories from the road and beyond.

Juliette

French by birth, Canadian by choice, nomadic by instinct. I travel, write, and get into just enough trouble to make good stories.

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