Olympic Baby

Two things happened during the Vancouver Olympics - Canada erupted into a sea of red and white with a patriotism that would make the USA look feeble and I had a baby. Obviously the latter was somewhat more important to me (and no, I did not name him Olympian or Whistler) but both have made an impression that will last a lifetime.

As some may know, after Fraser was born I spent 3 months in hospital and nearly died twice, with 3 trips to the intensive care unit. I will spare you the ins and outs of what went wrong (and the fine British institutions that by turn nearly killed me and then rescued me) but suffice to say I had so many tests and invasive procedures that I was suddenly on the 'other side' of medicine. I certainly gained a new found respect for patients and also an intimate knowledge (in a literal sense) of how these things will feel when I order the tests and procedures myself. But as 'they' say - there is such a thing as the 'curse of knowledge' - so I had spent my second pregnancy in a state of suspended fear.

My OBGYN, who was both a saint (for putting up with my jitters) and a star (the whole thing went as smoothly as James Bond) decided we needed to be in Vancouver for the two weeks leading up to the birth. I looked at her oddly when she told me this. 'What?' she said 'you can stay in a hotel'. Um. 'I am due on 15th February'. She looked back blankly 'and?'. 'The Olympics start on February 12th.....in Vancouver. Hotels may be out....'. She grimaced as she had hoped to be away for the whole period to avoid the crowds. I almost asked her if she had a spare room but I knew she had 4 children (soon to be 5 children I believe). So we went on a hunt and were rewarded by friends offering up their apartments for our sojourn - another incredible kindness. Due to unforeseen family circumstances the condo we had for one week was unavailable with a couple of weeks to go before we were due in Vancouver - my hormonal self went into panic mode, fuelled by the past experiences and the fear starting to insinuate itself on my days. As usual, coastal help was at hand. A kind patient and friend had made some inquiries after she heard about our predicament in the clinic. 'I think I have found you a place' she announced on her next clinic visit. I was disorientated momentarily. 'Place for what?' I thought. She started talking about an apartment in Mount Pleasant, an up and coming borough of Vancouver (and that is not agent-speak for scary and tawdry - it was mainly an area of small businesses and industries) and I realised she had gone out of her way to make sure that we had somewhere to go when there were no hotel rooms to be had in the city, 'not even for ready money' to quote Oscar Wilde.

I was immensely touched yet again by the hospitality of the Coast and how people who you barely know are willing to help with any problems (in 2011 I mentioned to someone how we wanted to go back to the UK and christen Holden but that we could not afford it currently and a cheque appeared in an envelope, with a note stating that family are more important than money - I never cashed it obviously, but we did make it home riding on that sentiment). The apartment had been empty for some time, so this lovely lady and my husband drove down with a mattress and other comforts from her house and when we arrived I was so surprised. The apartment overlooked the whole of Vancouver, BC Place in particular, and the mountains beyond - it was breathtaking. It was owned by her nephew and his wife who now owned a fine winery on the Naramata Bench which we have since frequented and their Pinot Gris is unrivalled (more in a subsequent blog).

We lived very simply for that week - using our picnic basket utensils and I had to climb out of bed using a large pole that was by the mattress. It was idyllic to be honest - Fraser played with his few toys, I sat doing cross-stitch and looking at the mountains and felt a new life waiting to appear. And all the while in Vancouver the Olympics were brewing, but I don't think anyone had any idea of what they would become to mean for the city and for Canada. At BC Place we watched rehearsals of the light show from the balcony and we could hear the opening ceremony practices ongoing (day and night.....). The Olympic village sat right in front of the apartment and national flags were draped from balconies like brightly-coloured symbols of a temporarily united world. We frequented the Three Lions pub round the corner for a 'full English' breakfast - a little black pudding and cumberland sausage can ease any pain.

We moved on in the week leading up to the Olympics to a friend's apartment near Granville Island and the excitement was building in the city. Everywhere seemed more crowded with competing languages and high expectations. We went to the hindmost run of the Olympic torch into Granville Island and Fraser sat high on Craig's shoulders shouting excitedly as the flame went whizzing by and onto a boat for its final watery travels to BC Place for the opening ceremony. Fraser and Craig rode the Skytrain and the Olympic Line endlessly while I put my swollen feet up and watched the world go by figuratively-speaking. The dynamism of the city was almost palpable as the gentle pace that defines Vancouver normally was swept away by the fevour for all things winter sporty. Every other person was wearing a volunteer coat and the CTV commentary box was visible for all to see, choosing to be amidst the organised chaos which gave the broadcasts a human edge that I had not seen before in these big events. There was an ice rink in front of the Art Gallery, people ziplining across Robson Street and large screens everywhere as yet blank and waiting to be filled with medal ceremonies. Those rings were all around and it seemed as if everyone wanted to be part of the large venn diagram that defines Olympic spirit.



The Opening Ceremony introduced me to more of Canada - Joni Mitchell - Canadian? Who knew! I cried watching the athletes parade around, it could have been hormones or the picture of the young Nodar Kumaritashvili, the Georgian luger who had crashed on his training run prior to the ceremony. From Donald Sutherland's majestic voice to the incredible slam poetry of Shane Koyczan things ran seamlessly. I loved seeing Romeo Dallaire, the man who helped save 32,000 lives in Rwanda (read Shake Hands With The Devil) and Betty Fox - the mother of cancer sufferer Terry Fox who was an inspiration to millions. It was heartwarming to see these kind of people representing Canada and not a bunch of celebrities alone, but accidental heroes. A minor malfunction of the torch was later spoofed in the closing ceremony - the funniest piece of self-effacing comedy I have seen in years.

And we were off - the Maple Leaf was everywhere and chants of Go, Canada, Go rang out all over town. On Day 1 we trotted (well, I was more lumbering like a giant bear swathed in woolies) to the Richmond O-Zone which boasted a juggler that my English friend upstaged sneakily(a misspent summer earning pennies as a street performer), a huge screen playing sports, some singers and the Dutch beer tent for which the queue was lengthy (unless you happened to have a Dutch passport, I was wishing for my orange Queen's Day hat, just for a seat in the warmth). I dutifully waited in line with Fraser for a balloon animal and cheekily gathered information from the BC showcase on wineries in the Okanagan (I had waited 40 weeks for a glass, so was getting desperate for the mere hint of wine in my future). An Eastern European performing troupe fascinated my son for some time, from their small caravan they brought a whole story to life and he was mesmerised.

Why the fuss about this particular Olympics for Canada - well, they are known for winter sports, ice hockey is their unofficial national sport (the official one is apparently lacrosse but most Canadians have no clue what this is - they should try getting beaten round the feet for a ball by 7 vicious schoolgirls) and had never won a gold medal on their home soil. It was a matter of pride. On the first day Jennifer Heil was robbed in the freestyle skiing and could only bring home a silver, but Canada regrouped for day 2 and the anticipation turned into apprehension. Could it be done?

February 14th 2010 was a sunny Sunday. More kind friends picked up Fraser at lunch and took him off to the Coast again as he would not be allowed in the hospital the next morning. Craig and I treated ourselves to a leisurely lunch at Earl's - a chain restaurant, but a comfortable one for an enormously pregnant woman who could only walk a few metres at a time. An afternoon snooze, a cheesy movie, and a pizza to go later, with my feet up on an ottoman, we watched Alexandre Bilodeau win a gold medal for Canada in the men's moguls on Cypress Mountain (troubled throughout by its lack of snow, but not lack of spirited snowmaking and dumping from elsewhere). The city felt like an eruption - cheering in the streets and the commentators abandoned all hope of being dispassionate and equitable. But this was no ordinary victory - the first person he went to was his disabled brother Frederic and embraced him - more tears from the very pregnant author. He then gave $25,000 to a cerebral palsy charity and encouraged other Canadians to give to charity as much as they could.

The next day I was in the hospital at 6am - it was still abuzz with excitement from the victory and the breaking of the medal curse. The anesthetist was chatting about it and I barely remember getting a spinal and all my fears had vanished, caught up in the Olympic maelstrom and dissolved. Holden was born at 9:55am with a full head of dark hair and a true Canadian cry. The headline on the newspaper that morning? Simply - GOLD. How appropriate.