Living in a city park: a memoir
After a series of disasters, I lost my condo and found myself living in Dufferin Grove Park. It was one of the happiest times of my life
As a young woman, I was a flight attendant for Air Canada. In 1990, during a layover in Zagreb, I was pushed out of an airport bus by a passenger who was rushing to catch her flight. I fell, head first, onto the concrete. The impact caused severe brain damage: for years, I was unable to read and barely able to speak. I still suffer from chronic nerve pain, incontinence and spinal stenosis, and I require the use of a wheelchair. Between workers’ compensation payments and financial support from my mother, I was able to cover my medical expenses and live independently in a Lawrence Heights condo, which I bought in 2000 for $200,000.
In 2012, my life began to unravel. I turned 65 and was no longer eligible for workers’ compensation. Instead, I got a mere $900 per month from the Canada Pension Plan. Two years later, I got into a car accident and, in the aftermath, I fell behind on my mortgage payments. Then my mother passed away, depriving me of my best friend. Suddenly I was more cash-strapped than ever before. In desperation, I refinanced my mortgage through a series of private lenders. In 2016, the man who held my mortgage demanded a balloon payment. When I couldn’t meet that request, he had me evicted.
I found a homeless shelter downtown that was able to house me and my two companions: my shih-tzu, Harry Potter, and my shih-tzupoodle mix, Booboo. That was the only good thing about the place. It was impossible to get along with the other residents. In the dining hall, people pushed and shoved each other. One of the guests took endless showers in the only accessible washroom, while I waited outside in increasing discomfort. After 18 months, the staff told me they were transferring me to another shelter. I wasn’t sorry to leave.
The next place, in the west end, was even worse. I shared a room with 14 other women. The space was a maze of mattresses and recliners; it was impossible to access the bathroom at night. Few things are more degrading than having to change your own diaper in a room full of people you barely know. Worse still was the violence. One time, during an argument, a woman choked and beat a younger girl right in front of me. I can still hear the loud crack of the girl’s head against the wall.
By July 2019, I’d had enough. I packed everything I owned into my wheelchair, put my dogs on my lap and moved out to Dufferin Grove Park. I found a pleasant spot by the playground and took a deep breath. I was going to live there for as long as I could.
When your home is the great outdoors, you learn to be resourceful. I rigged up a shelter by putting a plastic tablecloth over a beach umbrella. To keep my little patch of land from flooding, I built a dike out of kitty-litter bags. The nearby Dufferin Mall had a bathroom with a large sink where I could wash up.
The best thing about the park was the people—both the visitors and the city employees. I knew how to make myself liked. I stocked up on free coupon books and copies of Now magazine, which I dispensed to tourists who passed through, and I bought a bucket of coloured chalk for the kids who came to play. Some of them drew magnificent pictures on the pavement. One, a 12-year-old named Francesca, will surely grow up to be a successful illustrator.
Volunteers at the local community kitchen and the weekly farmers’ market made sure I had enough to eat, and when visitors had barbecues, they’d often set aside food for me. One day, I was sleeping in my wheelchair when my phone fell out of my pocket. In the shelter, it would’ve been stolen instantly. In the park, though, a young man gently tapped my shoulder and handed me my phone, and his girlfriend gave me a slice of key lime pie that she’d saved from a picnic. After I’d been in the park for a few weeks, some parkgoers built me a tent by attaching a tarp to a play structure. At night, I’d hole up in my refuge and watch classic movies on my portable DVD player—Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Ben-Hur—with Harry and Booboo beside me.
In October, a young man named Brent visited me. He was from an organization called Streets to Homes and wanted to ensure I had a place to live in the winter. I explained that given a choice between returning to a homeless shelter or dying of frostbite, I’d opt for death. Six weeks later, Brent and his colleagues found me a private subsidized apartment in the Beaches, which I could rent for $700 a month. By this time, I’d applied for and received an Air Canada pension, which increased my monthly income to $2,600.
I moved into my new apartment in November. The place is a 300-square-foot studio with hardwood floors. For the first time in years, I feel secure. But I miss the park, particularly the fresh air and the stars at night. I still go back on Thursdays to visit the organic market, and I correspond with my park friends over email. One of them is Francesca, the young illustrator, who wants to work with me on a book. We already have a title: The Old Lady in the Park With Her Dogs.
Given a choice between returning to a shelter or dying of frostbite, I’d opt for death