The Painting

I had been emergency evacuated from Barbados (August 2024), and was missing my life there dearly, so a friend brought the ocean to me. « Here is a picture of the beach in Barbados. Every time you look at the painting you will be reminded of why you are here and what you are fighting for. » The large canvas shows an open window looking out onto a perfect beach scene with palm trees swaying in the wind. The sandy beachfront is calm and welcoming. It is a promise of a refreshing dip in the salty waves. A surefire way to peace and relaxation. On the horizon, an inviting boat can be seen gently bobbing on the waves. A promise of adventure. “That looks exactly like my view when I did yoga!” I proclaimed. “What a nice reminder. The doctors are going to figure out what is wrong with me and I’ll be back there with my kids soon enough.” A promise of return, in the picture frame, the fluffy white clouds adorn a perfect sunny day at the beach in paradise. The painting has followed me along this journey with leukaemia.

Everyone visiting my ICU bed (October 2024) would notice the painting propped on the chair in the corner of the room. Sometimes I rolled away and sulked in silence. I wanted to yell: “Life is so unfair.” I ignored their preppy comments. They did not know how bad it was for me stuck in this hospital room 24/7. Other times, I tried to explain that I had been living in sunny Barbados and would go back soon. It gave us something to talk about while they changed my dressing or administered medicine. The painting was my motivation to get better. I remember an orderly who took care of me while I was in the ICU. She would come help with my baths and daily rotations in the hospital bed. She had a distinctive tattoo of a butterfly on her throat. “Wow! The beach, that looks so nice, I wish I was there!” She exclaimed, a distant longing in her eyes. The beach scene contrasted starkly with the heavy snow and dark winter outside.

Each time I had to change hospital room (from intensive care, to the hematology ward, to the hematology-oncology ward.) I was asked to put all my possessions in large white plastic bags which were unceremoniously plopped on to my gurney and wheeled with me to the new digs. The large painting aways posed a problem as it did not fit easily under the gurney. The picture that had brought smiles to so many visitors and staff was thrust under my bed atop the wheels and pushed with me to my next room. The hospital porter pushed the bed hesitantly down the hall and into the elevator whilst trying to juggle a stoic patient and a large painting of the beach in the dead of winter.

In one particularly dreary room, we placed the painting over the cracks in the wall. It could not be missed. A nurse came in and commented on the beautiful painting, we joked about the poor state of the rooms in the old section of the hospital. She added that that her elderly male patients with dementia were often found tapping at the cracks in the walls of their hospital rooms. The confused patients would repeatedly ask for specific tools so they could repair and paint the crumbling building. The nurse would gently remind them that this was not their permanent home. Everyday, they would return to the same marks in the wall in a loop of frustration. Not realizing that they were in hospital (waiting to go home.)

In another of the rooms, we set the picture in the closet with the door open. It was “my room with a view.” I could look into the closet and be inspired by the summer scene. The opposite wall had a dirty window which looked out on a brown brick wall. So anything to brighten up my room was welcome. When I went into hospital for six weeks for the conditioning chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant (August 2025), I brought many cards, photos and drawings with me. Equipped with a big blue ball of thumbtack, I plastered the wall opposite my bed with colourful memories. Often, I was too sick to eat and too weak to get out of bed. I could not distract myself with reading or even television so instead I would pause and stare at the photos of friends and family to remind myself that they were cheering me on from near and afar. I was presently in a difficult pass, but a necessary step, sunnier times were ahead. The window to the beach and the room with a view reminded me of such, the good times.

During a routine lumbar puncture, and on seeing the sky blue painting, a doctor commented that she had been to Barbados recently. She stayed at Dover Beach which was near our home. We both reminisced on the delicious rum punch which was instantly relaxing. She distracted me from the painful procedure as we recalled the traditional recipe for Bajan rum punch together: One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong and four of weak. A dash of bitters and a sprinkle of spice. Serve well chilled with plenty of ice. She insisted that the bitters made all the difference.

There were moments when looking at the painting made me very angry. When I got the cancer diagnosis and the reality set in that I would not be returning to sunny Barbados anytime soon. I wanted to tear it down and throw it against the wall! I wanted to scream and shout. “This is not fair! I was supposed to have my sabbatical and be the perfect mom in Barbados.” “Why me? Why am I stuck in this old hospital room?” “Why can’t they figure out what is wrong with me?” And later on “Why are these treatments for cancer so painful?” The painting was a constant reminder of what I was missing.

Today (May 2026), the painting adorns the wall of our bedroom in Outremont. It is a daily reminder of how far I have come in my battle and recovery from cancer. There are days (especially in the dead of winter) where I wish I could teleport myself back into the life we had on paradise island. I miss the life we had there, the big home with a pool, the connections and the friends we made. But today, I am resting and healing. I feel safe in the new nest we have made for our family. I hope the hardest part is behind me and one day I will be well enough to return to Barbados to say a proper farewell.