“He’s a big man”, the nurse said as I helped her move him on the bed. Yes he is. He’s ten feet tall. He’s built like an ox. He can lift fridges. He built a cottage. He’s my Dad.
Now he’s only my height. He can hardly walk. He can hardly stand. He can hardly sit up. He can hardly roll over. He has difficulty breathing. I just fed him. . . . He’s still my Dad.
For a few months he’d been feeling ill, but we all thought it was temporary and repairable. It would pass, and he’d be back on the golf courses swinging his clubs. I was stunned when mother called to say he had been admitted to the hospital. I went to see him.
He was lying there in the dim light of the evening, flat on his back, just staring at the ceiling. He looked like he was finished with life and ready to die. The word “die” may seem harsh, but it’s most accurate. He wasn’t ready to “pass away” or “move on” or “depart” or “go to the next level.” He looked like he was ready to die. Nowadays, I say he’s “left” or “gone.” Dead or deceased are too final, as, at times, I think he’s just in another room or only a phone call away.
I didn’t like this at all. He noticed a figure at the foot of his bed and looked to see that it was me. And then his face lit right up with a big smile — there, that’s my Dad. We talked a bit about my new job and other things that were now seemingly insignificant. And then it was time to go.
I didn’t like leaving him there in that cold, featureless room with nothing to do but lie there looking up. I brought him a couple of books I thought he’d like — hard covers, of course, as he opens (er, opened) books flat to read them, and I learned long ago not to lend him soft covers. But he had no interest in them just then, as he had already decided to read from just one book from now on.
It felt awful to walk away. He gave me his usual “I love you”, and then I did something I don’t ever recall doing before: I returned it. It’s something that’s not easy to do when you’ve never done it before. But it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for years and just couldn’t find the right time to suddenly do it. This was the time.
When my Dad’s Dad was dying, my grandmother mentioned that people would want to be informed of the eventual funeral, but wouldn’t come to see him while he was still in the hospital. And she wondered out loud, “Why wouldn’t people want to see him while he’s still alive?
I’ve never forgotten that lesson of life, and whenever a friend or relative has an indication of impending doom, like a hospital stay, I’ve tried to make a point of visiting. But then one day my grandmother reinforced that lesson — by dying herself. She had what was thought to have been a mild heart attack, and got a pacemaker in case it happened again. And I just would not accept it. I could not believe that this wonderful, healthy woman was sick. It couldn’t be possible, so I ignored it.
Six months later, she died. In that time, I had made absolutely no attempt to see her. I let her die without knowing that I cared, and this made me feel really bad. It still hurts. It’s unforgivable. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I’m sorry, grandma.
So I told my Dad that I loved him. It was hard, and I quickly turned away and broke down in the hallway. At least, I call it “breaking down” — a sudden rush of emotion causing a welling up in the eyes, followed by the awareness of it and an understanding that, as a man, I should not allow this to happen, and ending with an effort to get it all under control. ... But, it would happen again and again. I broke down outside. I broke down in the car all the way home. But I am so glad and pleased with myself that I had said it. I finally made sure he knew how I felt.
I repeatedly saw my Dad over the next few days, but it wasn’t until a week later that the world stopped turning. I arrived in the afternoon to find him suddenly seriously degraded. I was met by an old army buddy of Dad’s who earlier regaled us with stories of other army buddies who’ve since passed away. Though we enjoyed his stories, his visiting Dad somehow seemed like an omen. I almost wanted to ask him to stay away.
This was enhanced when the nurse took me aside and said “if there’s anything you’ve ever wanted to say to your Dad, say it now. . . . Tell him you love him.”
I wasn’t prepared for this. I thought he was stable. I understood that he wouldn’t improve, but I didn’t think he was this close to the end. The only solace I felt at that moment came from the fact that I really had no unfinished business with Dad — the little bit left had been cleared up a week before when I told him I loved him. But I still wasn’t finished with him — he’s my Dad.
Then Dad’s ex-paratrooper buddy suddenly left me all alone with him, and no one else came to visit for the next hour or so. I felt like I was the only one in the world who cared. This isn’t right. This is my Dad. He’s a great man. Everybody loves him. He’s always been respected for being such a good and honest guy. Where is everyone?
Over the next few hours, in amongst his audible exhales, Dad alternated between lying down, sitting up and standing, all in a vain search for a decent breath. At one point, while sitting, I thought he was preparing to get up, so I just stood there, next to him, holding his oxygen tube. I wanted to sit next to him, put my arm around him and ask him to tell me everything. But I didn’t. And I still regret that I didn’t because a moment later, he laid down again, and I lost my chance forever!
Then supper arrived. The nurse returned to help him eat and asked me to take over because she had many more patients to see. This was a new concept I had great difficulty with: feeding someone who used to feed me. On the one hand, this may seem fair — on the other, I’m feeding my Dad.
After a few spoon fulls and sips, he felt that he had had enough. He grabbed my arm, looked me in the eyes and said “thank you.” That was by far the most meaningful ‘thank you’ I had ever received, and I lost my composure. After a few moments, I struggled with a weak “you’re welcome”, but he probably didn’t hear me. Dad, you are so welcome.
I levelled the back of the bed, and then he turned onto his side and said “goodnight.” That was the last word my father ever said to me.
I sat down and watched him over the next hour as he struggled to find a comfortable breath. I wandered in and out of composure as I struggled with the realization that Dad was getting worse fast and that soon he would be gone. This can’t be. He’s not that old. And I’m too young to lose my Dad.
But the next morning, he died. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there at that moment. My sister’s phone suddenly stopped working, and I went to get her. When I showed up at her door, she said “I hoped he’d have gone overnight.” I knew she meant absolutely nothing unkind, but I couldn’t help but say “I was hoping he’d get better.”
When I got back to the hospital, it was all over. I was too late. I suddenly had no Dad. And no matter how long I sat by his bedside, he wasn’t coming back.
Someone tried to comfort me by insisting he wasn’t alone when the end came, and I wondered why that would matter. I suppose it’s better to be surrounded by caring friends and family, but really, when my time comes, I just want to walk away from everyone — say “good-bye”, turn and close the door behind me — walk into the sunset — swim out to sea.
The next day, my mother and I shopped for a funeral home. Though this hurt mom too, she seemed to be handling it better than I was. Seemingly at every turn, I was losing it — just what exactly was it that we were all discussing here?
A few days later came his funeral. Though a dreadful event, the rare presence of so many relatives and friends of the family made it seem somewhat more bearable. Funerals seem to summon people more than any other event, and yet, they’re the worst event to attend. Years later, I attended a “living” wake for an uncle who seemed to be on his way out. The turnout was okay, but I’m confident his funeral would be better attended. And how does one act at these things? There are no speeches — no gifts — no cards. “Hi, uncle, good to see you — for possibly the very last time.”
At my Dad’s funeral, I expected that such a great man would get a great turnout, but they didn’t even fill the pews. I hoped the sermons would last forever, but it was soon all over and everybody went home.
Weeks later, we gathered again for the scattering of his ashes. There wasn’t the same respectful showing in the attendees’ dress. And I was disappointed that no one wanted to share with me the honour of scattering his ashes. But the minister from Dad’s funeral returned, taking time away from his family on Father’s Day to be with ours. Though not religious, I do appreciate how some religions produce such nice people.
And then something very strange happened: the world carried on. It was as though my Dad never existed. How could this be? Didn’t my Dad matter? Don’t people care? Don’t people realize that now the world is not as nice?
I had lost my Dad. A big piece of solid, dependable security was now gone. And though I didn’t see him all of the time, I didn’t expect him to leave a void so deep. I have a feeling of incredible loss, and I’ll never get it back. There’s nothing I can do to replace it. This is a new experience for me, and I don’t like it. So far in my life, this has been the worst hurt.
In earlier years, when other relatives had gone, I was hit by the overwhelming feeling that life is short and I should get on with mine before time runs out. But this time I’m left with the feeling that I’m even more alone in this world than I was. And I know that somehow I’m going to have to get used to this because as life goes on, there will be more death.
Years later, I’d be caught off guard with the sudden realization that he’s gone and I won’t believe it. No, that can’t be! He’s here. He’s always here when I need him. It isn’t true. . . . But it is. And yet again, I’m hit with the shock and disappointment of the unfairness of it all. Is he really gone, and is there really no way to bring him back?
And even to this day, when I hear of a possible cure or new treatment for his ailment, I immediately think “There, now we can fix my Dad!” But we can’t. Unlike a broken chair that can sit in a corner indefinitely waiting to be repaired, when a human being breaks, he can never be repaired. He’ll be broken forever.
And I’ve lost something else I hadn’t expected to lose: my Dad’s undying pride for his kids. Dad had great amounts of unearned and undying pride for us just because we were his kids. We didn’t have to do anything or say anything, he was simply proud of us, and he absolutely loved introducing us to other people (seemingly anyone) as his kids. Now, I realize just how wonderful it was to see Dad’s face light up whenever he saw us or presented us to the rest of the world.
Back at home, we went through the “old photographs”. We saw a little boy in Poland. He emigrated to Canada at the age of six. He grew up poor on a farm, raising chickens and picking strawberries — while we knew him, he always hated strawberries. He trained for war and posed with his fellow soldiers, but he was never sent overseas and we always wondered why — we reasoned that it was because the best soldiers were kept to train the next ones. After the war, he met and married my mother — she was included in the purchase of her mother’s car. And then, one by one, there he was, holding the little babies he helped create and nurture. Over time, the homes in the background changed, and the cottage he built matured. And throughout this time, there was the young accountant at work. Eventually, there appeared a grandfather holding each of his grandchildren. And finally, there was my Dad at his last birthday party.
It’s been several years since he left. (There, you see? I said “left.”) And I feel guilty admitting that I’ve not really needed him this whole time. He usually comes to mind when I see something he’d like, or when I hear the word “golf”, or one of those very few times when I felt I had achieved something worthy of his pride — whether or not this feeling of pride benefited him or me. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to show me much respect, as I, out of all of his kids, am the only one who never married — a measure of worth that still seems to be used by all of the elders — and somewhat by me.
And after a while, Dad stopped coming to mind whenever physical labour was needed. I remember that he was incredibly handy when it came time to move something heavy, especially when I moved house. I once handed him a hammer and pointed to something “cute” that had to go, and moments later, it was gone. I then handed him a plane and pointed to a door, and thereafter, it closed perfectly. In his absence, all matters of heft were quickly shifted to friends.
The first few nights following Dad’s departure, my neighbour watched and waited for me as I came home. He would often ask me if there was anything he could do, and short of bringing my Dad back, there really was nothing. I could probably have taken advantage of his generosity and let him to cut my grass or something. But then I thought: why would I ask him to do something I could do myself. So instead, I asked him to do something I could never do again. I asked him to hug his Dad.