LINDA JUNE JIJIAN

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LINDA JUNE JIJIAN Linda June Jijian (nee Michael), passed peacefully at the McKinley Creek Hospice in Maple Ridge, BC on Tuesday, May 21, 2013, after a long and ultimately glorious battle with cancer. She was born in Winnipeg on June 30, 1941 at the old Grace Hospital on River Avenue to Helen Mae Michael and John (Jack) Lyle Michael. She was predeceased by her husband of over 40 years, Larry David Jijian, and survived by her sister Beverly Smith (formerly Whitell) of Swift Current, SK, her children Michael (Port Coquitlam, BC) and Leanne (Dili, Timor Leste), their spouses Shannon and Bob, and four grandchildren: Brendan, Tre, Taryn and Vivian. In her passing, Linda displayed more grace, courage, dignity and faith in her own convictions than many of us will ever see, let alone aspire to. In a world where many put no more effort into gathering wisdom and modelling virtue than it takes to share items they agree with on Facebook, Linda lived a truth and beauty that could have lit the dark side of the moon. You can't. You couldn't. No one's ever done better than Linda. Only now, in the aching, cavernous silence of her passing, are we beginning to glimpse the scale of the hole in which she's left us behind. And we don't even know how much we've lost. Not yet. We won't begin to feel how deep it goes, how wide it spreads, how far it reaches; how epically, monumentally massively gone she is until ... Until the phone doesn't ring, or the email doesn't arrive. Until someone has a particularly great whatever-it-is to share, and who do you call but Linda? Only, she's not there at 934 Holly where she always is. Where she's always been. Where she was always going to be. So we won't be able to call her and tell her whatever-it-is, and we won't get that you're-the-only-one-in-the-room feeling we used to get when she listened. Because she really listened. You know how sometimes, in a conversation, you realize the other person is just sitting there waiting for their turn to talk? Linda sat (or, more likely, stood in the kitchen pre-rinsing dishes before loading them into her dishwasher) and listened until you were done telling her your whatever-it-was. Then she'd ask questions, just to let you tell it all again. And after that, she'd connect it to some other story you'd told her a long time ago that did, now that she mentioned it, make the whatever-it-was sweeter, or nicer, or ... better. So now she's gone, and that amazing capacity she had to listen, to remember names, places, and details, and then ask about them later, is gone too. If you've read this far, you probably knew Linda. Maybe you knew of her, or knew people that knew her. In case you don't, let me tell you, she was (as she would sometimes proudly say) "a fine old broad". That's about as close to blowing her own horn as she ever got. So it's left to us to blow her horn for her. There's a lot to say. Doing justice to a life like Linda's in a few rented column inches is a tall order. (Not unlike Linda herself; she was tall, you know?) But more than that, she was multi-faceted. She was beautiful. She had impeccable posture, and -- meticulously turned out no matter the occasion -- she exuded class from the top of her Billy Idol-esque hair spikes, down past whatever shockingly excellent scarf she had recently incorporated into The Collection, all the way to the bottoms of her generously-apportioned feet (for which she could only find nice shoes at the lady's tall shop -- a fact that bugged her more than a little.) She made the world brighter with her heart. Wherever, however or whenever you needed Linda, she was there. Mike's first son Brendan was born into a non-traditional situation. The relationship had foundered, and Mike had made his way out to British Columbia. Linda and Larry freely, gladly and gratefully took Brendan on alternate weekends for most of his childhood. Linda once pried an eye open well before sunup to see four year old Brendan beside her bed, still in pyjamas. "Nana, it's morning," he said. "I'm sooo excited! I'm gonna make pancakes!" Then he disappeared with that eerie speed that recent toddlers all seem to have. She was up, dressed, and down the hall, and helping crack eggs into a bowl long before she was fully awake. Days after Leanne had Vivian (a month or so early, and so a wee bit unexpected) Linda dropped everything and flew to Vancouver, essentially unannounced. Her first act upon arrival? She scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom while Leanne learned the intricate ballet of breast feeding. That devotion to her family never waned. Over time, it deepened. The seasonal visits stretched out. By the time she retired, she had spent enough time in British Columbia that she had essentially become migratory. And you literally cannot find pictures of her grandchildren from the time Linda spent with them in which Linda herself is not prominently featured. She was energetic, vigorous and vital. Unless her living room or backyard was full of friends or family (which it often was), catching Linda sitting still was nearly impossible. She had the work ethic of an entire pioneer community. She kept her house, her affairs and her endeavours rigorously and lovingly organized. Nothing gave her more pleasure than planning projects that would magnify happiness and extend it to others, especially parties or trips. Leave it to Linda to take the one gift that cancer grudgingly spares (time) and use it to the fullest -- to fill her rapidly dwindling supply of months, then weeks, then days and finally hours with reminiscences on "my favourite this" or "the best that", sharing out reflections on life and death and love and lessons learned. Leave it to Linda to forget about fear and self pity and use her precious time to make her passing easier for the rest of us. She lacked any traces of pride, arrogance or vanity. By the standards of history, her life was not an "important" one. She didn't lead a country, or an army, or even a community. She didn't influence the course of great events, but Linda was exceptional beyond measure nonetheless. She sure led us, and she sure influenced the courses of the lives lived close to her. None more so than those she held closest, her husband Larry, and Mike and Leanne, the children she longed for, located, welcomed, nurtured, and championed. Their lives, their homes, their families, their broken hearts are testament to the wisdom of every choice she ever made. It is said that character can be built; that adversity enacts some alchemy on people that turns them from something less to something more. This is nonsense. Character isn't built. Character is revealed. No one who knew Linda, whether as a neighbour, a friend, a colleague or a customer, a cousin, an aunt, a sister, a Mum, or a Nana will doubt this. Linda didn't acquire quality. She simply embodied it. Linda was the best of us. She was tirelessly generous in any and all ways, but most particularly with her time; an attentive and authentic listener who never judged the story, the people in it, or the teller; an honest and passionate lover of nature; and a builder of connections between people, groups and places. She was a loyal, valued, trusted and beautiful friend, co-worker and family member. She was the best of us, and now we are left with only the unendurable silence of her absence. There's a lot to hate about the way cancer steals life, but Linda never gave it much thought. "Bugger" was about as deep into that conversation as she wanted to go. "Bugger" she'd say. "I wasn't done." Asked to elaborate, she'd ponder the massive finality of eternity bearing down on her and sum it up like this: "It's like life is a party, and I have to leave early." In fact, she was right. Life is a party. And she should know. Not many people threw as many parties as Linda did. She would have wanted a party. And so, though our hearts are broken, we will throw one last big one in her name. On her 72nd birthday, June 30, 2013, family and friends from far and wide are invited to gather in the gymnasium of Whyte Ridge Elementary School at 1:00 p.m. to help us celebrate her life. Linda asked anyone interested in honouring her memory to make an online donation in her name to CancerCare Manitoba's Pediatric Fund. Should you be so inclined, we would appreciate the gesture. As would Linda.

As published in Winnipeg Free Press on Jun 15, 2013