Farewell from In A Pickle - musings from a former Okanaganite.

Photo: Contributed

Columnist Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel on Six Mile Beach in the West Kootenay, one of the many interesting places in B.C. she travelled to during her years living in B.C.. She has now moved back to Alberta..

Jarred awake, I gasped as my heart threatened to punch its way through my chest. Sounds from Jurassic Park broke the silence of my first night on our West Kelowna farm. I couldn't take the shrieking.

“What the hell is that thing?” I asked my snoring husband. A tetradactyly’s call echoed above the house. It waited to ambush anyone stupid enough to go outside. The noise stopped when a rooster took over cock-a-doodle-doo-ing. I was relieved.

I hoped the dinosaur would catch the annoying chicken that crowed at 2 am. The chorus swelled as a donkey and a hound began to bray and bay. I covered my head with a pillow, praying for a swift end to the commotion.

This prairie gopher eventually learned the harmless quail made that eardrum-splitting awful sound. Those adorable hens and other nocturnal animals would become my nighttime nemesis, plague my dreams and leave me sleep-deprived for months.

Photo: Contributed

After years writing her In a Pickel column for Castanet, Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel-Hagel is signing off..

Despite their friendliness, our neighbours eyed us Albertans with a degree of suspicion. Still, they asked both of us to join a barn dance potluck and someone left a chocolate bar with a welcome note on the fence. I went horseback riding with a couple of women. Three years later, after a horse-riding accident, my neighbours and a riding buddy were instrumental in saving my life. I was critically injured and spent nine weeks hospitalized. We relocated to Kelowna soon after and lived there for the next eight years.

Despite the hardship, I continued my work as a home-care-aide. I believed that losing my job would result in hopeless depression, leaving me bedridden. Furthermore, I liked assisting others and gained a new understanding of helplessness. A ceiling lift got me into my wheelchair while hospitalized. My body's temporary failure humbled me, strengthening my desire to aid others with similar experiences. Whereas my recovery allowed me to assist, many of my clientele were terminally ill. Making a difference in their last months or days was my objective. It was a tough job, and I was burned out.

I'm thankful that I was able to receive a proper clinical diagnosis for complex PTSD later. The riding injury compounded existing mental health problems caused by a history of being abused in childhood and onward.

Invaluable counselling came from Kelowna Family Services and Elizabeth Fry Society, while Reaching Older Woman provided a supportive group of like-minded individuals seeking better lives. Our close-knit group lasted for years.

I paid it forward when I discovered a teenage girl in a ditch who’d allegedly been abducted and assaulted in a storage container for several days before escaping. She and I went straight to the RCMP. I was told later by a reputable source there was human trafficking nearby. It was fortunate she escaped before a one-way trip to an unknown foreign land.

Her rescue brought me joy, a reciprocal act considering the extensive support I received from the Kelowna community, especially my church.

You don't get to pick your relatives but you can choose friends who are like family—friends connected spiritually, not by blood.

There was more to life than just work and recovery. Len and I had a great time touring the province, particularly the West Kootenay.

Madam Molly Brown’s brothel in Sandon, a thriving silver mining town from 1892 to 1900, is now almost deserted. Molly used her ill-gotten gains to fund a hospital and school, a surprisingly philanthropic act. Her historic home was restored but it’s no longer a cat house.

Nelson also had a similarly tumultuous past, with the Sons of Freedom, Doukhobor activists who staged a nude protest outside the now historic courthouse in 1932. My city tour included a dangerous adventure, traversing the 6 Mile Beach, a site where many lost their lives due to a hazardous sandbar. Even though I didn't venture far, it felt ominous and I wouldn't do it again. I had to quit testing God. We also had countless calmer adventures, which I enjoyed sharing through my column.

Writing for Castanet as a columnist was therapeutic. My mentor, former editor Ross Freake, was determined to make me a better writer. He could be a taskmaster but when my dander was up and my ego bruised, he softened his stance and so did I. In so doing we arrived at a compromise.

At his suggestion, I found an editing program, ProWritingAide, to help with the boring but necessary part of writing. It was a game changer. Many times, Ross drove me to the brink of insanity. (Or did I arrive?) Regardless, I'm eternally grateful to him.

It’s been a slice my fellow Okanaganites, and you’ll see me online again somewhere sometime soon.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.