My Dad

I recently came across this picture I took in 2011 from the millennium bridge in London looking towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. It immediately brought me back to that morning and that miserable week.  It was August 20th, the day after my Dad had died thousands of miles away, in Vancouver, Canada.  

My Dad got sick the previous spring with some strange symptoms, but it took until June to verify that he had ALS. I remember when he called to tell me —I was horrified, and in my denial I said, “but, you’re too old to have ALS, Dad!” He laughed, and gently insisted that it was not only possible, but true.  What amazed me was that he seemed ok with it, he seemed resigned to the idea.  I believe he’d already figured it out by doing Google searches so when he got the diagnosis it only confirmed what he already knew.  He’d had a while to get used to the idea, I guess, unlike me.  Mind you, my father wasn’t much for showing emotion so maybe he just hid any fear or sadness he was feeling.

The reason why I was in the UK and not in Canada when my Dad died was that I had an orchestra tour to Scotland and had planned a little vacation with my daughter, Erica, around the tour, which consisted of a couple of concerts at the Edinburg Festival. I was supposed to be away for two weeks or so, and I had convinced myself that my Dad would be ok until I got back. ALS is normally a horribly slow killer, so I couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t be around when I got home.  It turns out that if you get ALS later in life it can take you pretty quickly. After Edinburgh Erica and I  took the train to London and were going to spend a few days there before heading to Paris for a few days and then home. I had been receiving little messages from my nephew’s wife, Emily, who, along with my nephew, were my  Dad’s closest family in Vancouver, hinting that I should give my Dad a call because he wasn’t doing so well. I waffled because, though I had a cell phone, I was unsure whether it worked for international calls, whether it would cost the earth to call Canada if it did work, and stupid things like that. So, I simply put off figuring it out and didn’t call.  

The day before I left for the trip my Dad had called me on Skype and we had a nice, normal  conversation.  He looked and sounded almost as usual, which relieved my mind since I was about to go so far away. He was still at home at that point,  so when my niece later sent me those gentle messages I kept remembering how he looked when I talked to him and it cemented my conviction that there was no need to panic.  Even the fact that my brother had called me as I was actually sitting in the Dorval airport waiting area about to board the plane, to tell me that my Dad was in the hospital and that I might want to reconsider the trip, didn’t convince me.  I thought my brother was being overly dramatic, and that Dad would certainly survive for much more than two more weeks. In the end, none of his children made it back in time to say our good-byes.  I guess I wasn’t the only one in denial.  

So, there I was sitting in a pub with Erica when I got a message from my nephew, Ryan, asking me to call him. As soon as I saw it I knew. We hurried back to the college dorm we were staying at and I called Ryan from a pay phone (don’t remind me that I could have done this at any point before that) ,to hear that Dad was gone.  His condition had deteriorated quickly and he had refused any heroic measures beyond being made as comfortable as possible. The ALS had attacked his throat causing him to stop eating and eventually, breathing.  I was in shock, and wracked with guilt. I suddenly saw clearly that I hadn’t wanted to talk to my Dad in the state he would have been in. I wanted to preserve the memory I had of our last conversation when he had looked like the old Dad I had known.  I had been chicken.  

That night I had a hard time sleeping and ended up getting up very early and going for a walk across the millennium bridge, not far from where we were staying. It was a Saturday morning so things were quiet. So quiet that I was almost the only person there and I was able to take that eerie picture. After crossing the bridge I snuck into Saint Paul’s and sat in a pew drinking in the quiet calmness of the place, the incense, and the muffled voices of people conducting an early service in a hidden chapel.  Though I’m an atheist (as was my Dad) I was drawn to the place.  I felt comforted there by the beauty and stillness. I was trying to commune with my Dad’s spirit and ask his forgiveness, I guess, though he would have scoffed at the idea. 

Eventually Erica and I took the train to Paris, where I took a plane home to Montreal, and she stayed on.  I flew out to Vancouver a couple of days later for my dad’s memorial service, a very small affair since he had few friends there, having moved there with his last partner, Fran, only four years previously. It was good to be with my family, reminiscing and mourning our loss.  

The bright moment of the trip came on my very last day when Emily gave birth to their second child, and I was able to meet my new great-nephew, who they named Lawrence after his great-grandfather. It was wonderful to have something to celebrate after being sad for so long.

I’ve played over those last days of my father’s life in my head numerous times. I berated myself for not calling and giving my Dad the comfort of hearing my voice, though he probably wouldn’t have been able to respond. At those moments, what is more important? Neither my Dad nor I believed in an afterlife, so, logically, maybe the memories of the surviving person have priority over the last moments of the person whose memories would be shortly erased. I tell myself that sometimes, but it doesn’t remove the guilt. I do have that cherished memory of our last conversation- comfortingly banal in its normalcy- but the price I paid for it being our last conversation is pretty high.

This year, on the 30th of November, my Dad would be 96. Here’s to you, Dad.