Frozen in time

A character, on skis

“Neve would love this, wouldn’t she?”

My thoughts exactly, spoken aloud by my sister. We could both envisage her, bursting with joy and vitality, her cheeks rosy and warm. She would be flying through the snow, fearless and full of life. In place of my fears of falling, Neve would be bold and brave.

We were cross-country skiing in the Yukon, along with a couple of our children, headed to a cabin in the woods. I won’t pretend it was easy; my spectacular fall, minutes into our ski, bruised both my body and my ego. Passing small children looked on in shock; I felt their bemused judgement. In time, I began to appreciate the potency of concentrating intensely, as I came down the hills. Total focus and talking to myself out loud were remarkably effective at keeping me calm, in control and able to slow down. Perhaps some residual skiing knowledge remained, from my brief spell of lessons as a young child, on these very trails.

None of this was the case for Neve; she never tried skiing. Her two visits to the Yukon took place in the summer. It was more mosquitoes and midnight sun rather than skis and snow.

My only clues to her presumed skiing ability were her enjoyment of swimming and running. She had been progressing well through her swimming lessons. In fact, she managed to return for one more lesson during her treatment, before she became too unwell. Despite the added complexities of Covid, this was a moment of delight and exuberance. I recall Neve’s complete joy, in the car park after the lesson, hand in hand with her dear friend, in their almost identical onesies.

Notwithstanding the swimming, there was still plenty of energy to burn, before cancer became a part of her life. Several years earlier, I had signed Neve up to join the local athletics club, once she was old enough. The visions of channeling her running and jumping into something structured and focused were real. I vividly recall the phone call, telling me a space had opened up for her. Thank you, but she has brain cancer and is dying, so we won’t need the space. The reminders of an imagined life, no longer a reality.

Here I was now, imagining Neve on skis and in the snow, despite her never having even seen Canadian snow. Nor, for that matter, had she ever attached her feet to long thin planks, as a mode of transport. Would she really have loved it?

She would have been twelve by now. We were speculating about her likes and dislikes from almost half her lifetime ago. Does a keen and competent six year old swimmer always produce a keen and competent twelve year old skier?

Nevermind the added complication of the unlikelihood of us even being in Canada, if she were still alive. It is rarely straightforward to ponder what Neve’s life would be like, if she were still living. The fork in the road that was brain cancer has left us with wildly divergent possible lives. A twelve year old Neve without cancer is immeasurably different to a twelve year old Neve with cancer. The imagined Neve of the future is not a single person. We mourn the multiple past Neves and grieve for all the impossible possible future Neves.

I only knew young Neve. I don’t know how she would have changed, as she matured and grew. Her character is frozen in time, no longer with the opportunity to surprise us or to act out of character. For this, I unexpectedly grieve.

Going forward, her unique multidimensionality has already begun to dissipate. It’s as though she smooths out, aspects of her character diminishing. I sense that it’s the aspects that don’t match our overriding stereotypes that are disappearing. Neve was energetic and had a wonderful laugh. Is this version of her character the one that is becoming frozen in time? What about the days when she was annoyed or angry or even, annoying? Despite the multifaceted layers of her personality and her character, the bristles, annoyances and scowls seem to be smoothing over.

It was never clear how many of her challenges were part of her or part of her cancer. In reality, this is irrelevant - her cancer was so deeply embedded and within her brain. Neve was Neve, irrespective of the origins of her character.

She may indeed have loved being on skis in the woods with us but it’s also equally plausible that she would have been cold and tired, whining and complaining. When we arrived at the cabin, 1.5 hours too late for the free hot chocolate, it’s very possible that she would have been disappointed and angry. It’s all your fault. Why didn’t we set out earlier?

She would be nearing teenager hood now. Her likes and dislikes, her preferences, they would be continuously updating. The enthusiasm I am imagining is that of a six year old; can I really project that forward on to a twelve year old? It feels oddly unfair that she should be consigned to remaining her little self, with no opportunity to surprise us.

There is no doubt in my mind that an alive Neve would have continued to grow into herself, whatever that self was. I can and do ponder and project but the Neves of the future will remain a mystery. Her known to me character, her likes and dislikes, they are frozen in time.

And so we continue forward, imagining Neve flying through the snow, her curls bouncing and her smile wide. Whilst accepting that she is just as likely to have refused to join us or to be sitting on a stump, arms crossed, alternatively glaring at us and at the locked door of the cabin that had contained the free hot chocolate, had we only left earlier and skied faster.