The following opinion piece was submitted by Collingwood resident Norm Douglas. Douglas is a former Crown attorney and retired Ontario Court judge.
Wednesday was the first day of a new year, 2025. I am at home in Collingwood.
How many of us are hoping for a fresh start?
I'm thinking of the thousands of people that I impacted over the 48 years I worked in the criminal justice system.
For many, they had lost hope. They were the offenders either facing prison terms, or victims who were facing a future with life-long damage, or worse, without a lost loved one. The courtroom was filled with doom and despair.
For others, there were offenders who left the workshop I toiled in every working day, with gratitude and resolve that they were trusted with a new beginning. Or victims who at least had met someone who cared about them and tried to encourage them to carry on with their new reality. Clinging to hope.
Most people came to the courtroom yearning for an end to a long, hard journey. The trial was finally about to begin, or the day of judgment when the result would be known.
They sat looking at me, waiting for the justice system to live up to its title. After all, I was in the judge's chair.
And most were disappointed.
It was on sentencing days that I was acutely aware that the ammunition for my task was inadequate. I had no magic tools.
I could not fix the damage done like a mechanic, a doctor, a seamstress, or all those women and men who have more useful jobs.
Very few people left my workplace happy.
Now let me switch venues and tell you where I was Tuesday on the last day of 2024. I was in the "chemo suite" of the cancer wing at Royal Victoria Regional Health Centre (RVH) in Barrie.
They call it a "suite." They make it as comfortable and cheery as they can, including big, soft La-Z-Boy chairs to sit in as you get your treatment.
Wonderful, kind and caring-hearted nurses who treat you like royalty. Their Christmas decorations were still up. On the wall behind each chair was a picture of a Christmas character.
I sat opposite a frail man who weighed less than 100 pounds (under Macauley Culkin), and another man who kept falling asleep (under Clark Griswold). I was in the Grinch's chair.
It was a busy day at RVH. There must have been 50 patients in the vast area around me where life-giving infusions were slowly dripping into our veins.
My situation was better than most. I now only have to get a bone strengthener infusion every three months. I survived my five months of chemotherapy in 2016 — although I am still on a daily Revlimid pill to battle the cancer cells in my bone marrow. I also survived my 10 radiation treatments and a stem-cell transplant, and was back on the bench in February 2017.
Here's my point — and I have one, unlike Del Griffith in Trains, Planes and Automobiles: The chemo suite was full of people who had been struck with tragedy, but were hoping for a fresh start.
Once again, I felt like I had the responsibility — as an eight-year survivor of cancer, so far — to try to encourage those around me. Whenever I am in that chair, I have the urge to make people smile.
As I took my seat under the Grinch, the nurse asked me if she could get me something to drink or a snack, i.e. water or an Arrowroot packaged cookie.
"Yes, thank you," I said. "I'll have a rum and Coke, and some nachos."
The lady in the chair next to me (I couldn't see the picture above her, but maybe it was Rudolph) burst out laughing.
So, dear reader, are you full of hope today? Are you clinging to a slim hope? Are you without hope?
Here is what I want to say to you on this first day of a new year in your life: You are not alone, and you can help those around you.
Avis Rodney, a wise justice of the peace who worked with me in Guelph, said to me one day something that has stuck ever since: "No matter whom you come across in life, they are going through something."
This tidbit of advice helped me on the bench, and also when I took off my robe at the end of a day, to judge people without being judgmental.
Whether looking out at the gallery from my lofty perch then, or at those around me from my Grinch chair in the chemo suite the other day, I know that I was — and am — just another pilgrim going through some tough challenges in life. And I am given this day to try to help others in what they are going through.
If you are reading this, even if from a hospital bed or from jail, or from a dark place because tragedy has struck you or your family, there is hope, because you are alive. None of us is promised tomorrow. Today is what we have.
"Happy New Year" can be a hollow, meaningless greeting.
When I say it to you now, I mean peace and hope in your heart today; look for the blessings this day will bring you. Perhaps this column is one of them.
