She was a neurologist in Russia. She wanted to practice in Canada.

The first doctor she went to meet didn't show up for her meeting. But she was determined and never gave up.

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She was a neurologist in Russia but studied for two years to get her residency here.

When we first met in St. Petersburg, Russia, Olya wore a thick, red felt coat and barely said a word. "Kak dela " - my phonetically challenged attempt at "How are you" - brought a quick smile.

She was a neurologist working for a hospital in Veliky Novgorod, a 1,100-year-old city north of Moscow. She lived with her mother and infant son Vanya on the second floor in a Stalin-era apartment block, just one of a horseshoe circle of identical units, four stories each, inside with identical curved railings leading up; the top of the railing faded, now the colour of a leaf at the bottom of a spring puddle, polished by the palms of thousands of weary Russians climbing the stony steps.

Next door was a 900-year-old bright white plaster Orthodox church that had been reassembled after the Second War but abandoned, the windows coated with dust and covered by cardboard.

Her blond two-year-old Vanya met me at their apartment door, wearing well-ironed, checked pants, a wide-footed, cross-armed stance and a small red bowtie.

Within minutes, Vanya was on my lap, his man-of-the-house bravado broken down by chocolate and orange juice, and I was pouring (and spilling) champagne on my future mother-in-law.

Over the next two years, I travelled seven times to Russia, staying in Novgorod while my future wife worked at the hospital.

We married in Russia; the Canadian government gave us no choice; it was a tiny ceremony. We were married at the community hall; the state did not allow church weddings.

I gave the clerk a bottle of wine and said, “pa-dark”, my butchered Russian for gift. There was a small orchestra at the reception; I decided to outdrink her father and got very drunk. The orchestra played on, and we lit fireworks; Vanya ran into my arms wearing his crisp white shirt, black bowtie and Manchester United football shorts I had brought him from Canada. Fireworks exploded, nothing was burned down, no one was hurt, and soon it was over; the suit was returned, and after a honeymoon, I was back in Canada.

A month later, Olya and Vanya stepped off the plane in Fort McMurray, Alberta, where I worked as a college instructor.

Olya's first task was to understand what the government wanted from her so she could become a Canadian neurologist. Without my help, she set up an appointment at the local hospital to meet the medical director.

She returned in tears. He hadn't shown up and left a message for her to speak with a nurse, but she pressed on. The College of Physicians & Surgeons of Alberta told her that her residency wasn't up to Canadian standards but allowed her to write an evaluation exam, which she passed.

Soon, she was off to Saskatoon for a second exam. When I picked her up at the airport, she was disconsolate and weeping as she told me she had surely failed. But she passed, and when I looked it up, I discovered that her score in her speciality was in the top one per cent.

My new job in central Canada beckoned; it was in a city whose hospital offered residency opportunities. After four days of driving across Canada and through the Canadian Shield in a 12-year-old Honda Civic with a deer whistle and a front bumper that was only semi-attached, we arrived in London, Ontario.

Olya was seven months pregnant, and while I worked, she studied diligently, except for two daily three-kilometre round trips to take Vanya to kindergarten. The binding on her copy of Toronto Notes had long since failed, now held together by duct tape and tender care. She was studying when I left at 7 AM, and equally, when I returned, she soldiered on.

Our daughter was born in the heat of July.

Olya brought her Toronto Notes medical textbook to the hospital and told me she might as well study, as her neighbour kept the light on at night.

With our newborn red-headed daughter at home, I returned to work each evening to Olya studying, still buried deep in our brown-stuffed couch, and our baby daughter resting by her side.

More than good grades on the additional exams were needed to get a medical residency - Olya needed to volunteer. One of my co-workers set her up with a local paediatrician, a tiny, kindly Zoasterian paediatrician, and a neighbour I had met getting off the elevator gave us a list of contacts, one offering Olya another volunteer research project. A lawyer kindly offered to notarize all her documents free of charge.

Many nights, I would wake to the light from the office. Olya forever studied - her textbooks on the table my grandmother had brought from Ireland, the Toronto Notes open at the foot of the couch.

My father told me how his father, who had only finished Grade 8, helped support my uncle, who became a urologist in Calgary. My father continued the tradition and paid Olya's exam and book fees.

After two years of studying, Olya was pleased to find out she had nine residency interviews. So we went off to buy proper medical resident interview clothing. In the early spring, we drove from Waterloo, Ont., where we were then living, to Kingston, London, Ottawa, Hamilton and Toronto.

There was so much weight on her, on us all, as if we were standing behind a wall falling in. Anxiety gnawed at me, and of course, for Olya, it was worse. Everywhere we went, we heard stories of applicants who had travelled thousands of kilometres for their one opportunity, applicants who were in their sixth year of trying, or applicants who had been respected physicians in their home countries but now waited nervously to interview in a room filled with qualified candidates.

At the University of Toronto, Olya left the interview room feeling confident. One of the interviewing doctors eyed me strangely, perhaps assuming I was another candidate and wondering why I was wearing jeans. I introduced myself as Olya's husband, and the doctor laughed.

Olya told me later that they had asked her how she would respond to taking directions from younger residents, as she was an ancient 28. "I'm not that old," she said. They thought that was spunky.

The day of the residency match came two months later. After two and a half years of study, Olya would be informed by logging on to a website.

At work, I waited for my wife's call, fearing the sound of a quivering voice and tears. Only a few applicants receive a residency.

She was matched at the University of Toronto.

Her mother, who had come from Russia, cried joyfully when she tried to explain to her grandchildren how much their mother had accomplished. I was proud as I drove home with a bottle of wine. I cried with joy.

My immigrant wife was now a neurology resident.

So many immigrants with medical or professional degrees end up working menial jobs. But she had run the gauntlet and emerged wearing scrubs.

Today, Olya has a thriving practice in Toronto. Eighteen year old Sophia is doing well at university and Vanya is an engineering student at an Ottawa university. He no longer supports Manchester United.

I teach at university, do my Substack, get suspended for insulting terrorists and care for my two Westie terriers, Toby and Malibu.

My daughter, born in the heat of July, has grown up.