What makes a good First Person essay? As the editor of this daily soul-searching read, I always say that I’m looking for stories that make me feel something. If it makes me thoughtful, surprises me, brings me to tears or has me laughing out loud, there’s a good chance I’ll be in touch about publication.
Combing through reader submissions can feel like therapy some days - so many insights into personal worlds and experiences, I’m touched and grateful that readers are willing to share so much. (Though I can do without explicit romantic exploits; send those elsewhere, please.)
What also makes this column work so well is the artwork. Our illustrators find delightful and creative ways to bring the stories to life; each illustration supports the text, but also stands alone.
This year many of our most-read First Person essays were poignant, heart-wrenching pieces written by women coping with enormous upheaval - one had been approved for MAID, but how do you wrap up a life? Another was told she’d have to be her husband’s caregiver, not just his lover; and one more was reeling anew as her partner’s Parkinson’s progressed. (Readers, thank you for reaching out to these writers, each was touched and comforted by messages of support after their work was published. First Person is more than just a column, it’s a community.)
This year, there were a number of stories from empathetic (maybe sheepish) Americans who wrote about their love for Canada - and one from a U.S. emigrant who moved to Vancouver made a lot of readers laugh with sharp, funny comparisons between New York and his new home. Another newcomer touched hearts with his impressions of Canada, too, it was such a well crafted piece that I stole his first line for the headline: The Canadian Dream is colder than I expected.
Reflections about aging also caught your attention this year. The candid stock taking of sixtysomething entering “the final chapter” of life and marriage was incredibly well read, as well as the nomadic confessions of an older woman who sold everything to travel.
Got a story to tell? I can’t wait to read it: firstperson@globeandmail.com
Here are the top ranked stories:
The shift from wife to caregiver was instant and soul crushing
Illustration by Christine WeiIllustration by Christine Wei
I never imagined that at 50, I would be a caregiver to my husband, just 59, while raising our two children, 13 and 11. Two years ago, Andrew was diagnosed with young-onset Alzheimer’s disease, a rare variant form called posterior cortical atrophy, or PCA. Before this, I had never even heard of PCA. Now it defines our lives. Few people understand the grief, loneliness and bursts of humour that come with it. Dementia is not one story – it is many stories. More research is desperately needed into PCA, and care models must evolve to support patients and their partners.
I’ve been approved for MAID. And now I must figure out when
Illustration by Marley Allen-AshIllustration by Marley Allen-Ash
“You’re approved for MAID,” the doctor said.
It was mid March and I was both jubilant and relieved. At last I had an exit strategy from the chronic pain and faltering mobility of spinal stenosis that have haunted my last 12 years. But today, six months later, I look back with doubt and terror at the formidable task I’ve taken on. Am I sad or glad?
The next thing I must do is call the doctor and set a date. My feet go cold. Can I actually do this? Everyone says to me, “You can always change your mind.” That remark somehow diminishes all I’ve done and makes a flighty thing of my decision.
I’m a New Yorker getting used to living in Vancouver - one extra u at a time
Illustration by Christine WeiIllustration by Christine Wei
Back in my native New York, I practised for my upcoming emigration to Vancouver. As I got off a bus in Manhattan, I turned to the driver and said “thank you driver.” Three other people behind me also said thank you. I looked back at the driver. Her mouth was hanging open. She was flabbergasted. I’ve now been in Vancouver for six months and I cannot help but notice some differences between my new home and my old one.
All in all, I have to say that both Vancouver and New York are pretty good places to live. However, if push comes to shove, I have to choose Vancouver, especially if I need a bathroom.
After my divorce, I sold everything to travel. I love being a middle-aged nomad
Illustration by Alex SiklosIllustration by Alex Siklos
I am a 61-year-old divorced woman who gave up her home and belongings; left behind her adult children, friends and family; and said, “I’m going to travel the world and I don’t know when I’ll be back.” The usual reply I receive after hearing my story is: “I could never do that.”
Living out of a suitcase, not knowing where I’m going next, often not until a few days before I’m due to move on, is not for most people. But this was – and is – my plan. In fact, my only plan is to go where I want and when (adhering to travel laws and restrictions) and let my heart and soul lead the way.
What to say when someone is grieving is tricky. Sometimes actions speak louder than words
Illustration by Alex Deadman-WylieIllustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
The tragedy of my situation didn’t escape me. My 32-year-old husband died from brain cancer. Snatched away at the prime of his life as a newlywed and newly minted Toronto resident. I was only 30 years old, branded a widow, and looking nowhere close to one of The Golden Girls, which is a popular image for grieving wives.
Widowhood confused me and everyone around me was just as flummoxed about how to deal with a young widow. Those close to me rallied around to try and help, providing me space to wallow and a supportive shoulder to cry on when needed. But everyone outside my circle was at a loss for comforting words when I revealed my relationship status.