Of Life and Death

Deborah Clague July 6, 2014

This post was supposed to be different.

I was going to write about how my father was doing well enough to be discharged from the hospital on Wednesday, June 25.

I was going to write about how I brought him to one of his favourite spots, Assiniboine Park, and walked him through its conservatory. He sat in a complimentary (albeit faulty) wheelchair provided at the entrance and complained about the lack of regard for those who are handicapped. I listened intently. We both marvelled at the size of the banana tree leaves growing in this faux sub-tropic herbaceous environment. The koi pond reminded us of our adventures backpacking throughout Asia. What a life we've shared! As we both adjusted to our new reality, I was starting to make plans to spend quality time with him again now that he was free of the salmon pink prison. We would visit the new 'Journey to Churchill' exhibit at the zoo. We would travel to Bothwell, Manitoba to purchase some of the world-renowned cheese made in the area. We would finish watching the World Cup...

I should be writing about these things but they were not meant to be. My father had a stroke on June 28.

Brought back to the hospital, I knew this was going to be different. My father had lost his ability to speak and could barely control the movement and grip of his hands. Feebly attempting to communicate his thoughts and concerns with us through the written word, they came out garbled and nonsensical. Our struggle to comprehend resulted in my dad frustratingly verbalizing the one word we did understand quite clearly: "fuck".

"Fuck", "fuck", "fuck".

I went home the next morning leaving my father in the care of several extended family members who would take the next shift in looking after him. In 72 hours, I had a total of 3 hours of restless sleep. I was so tired, yet knew my body and mind would not get lost in REM anytime soon. There were too many thoughts racing through my head. Before leaving the hospital though, I did two things: 1) spent 10 minutes vomiting in the washroom and 2) came to terms with the fact that I was about to lose my father.

The first call came at 1:30pm on Sunday, June 29. My uncle called to let me know that I was needed at the hospital immediately. I braced for the worst but this wouldn't come yet. This would be a different hell. There was no immediate family present and extended members had cornered the doctor delivering a long harangue about perceived incompetence and lack of humanity. When I arrived, I was pulled aside. A decision needed to be made. A part of me always thought I would be the one to request every option. To pull out all of the stops. Someone would have to - would NEED to - save this man; my beloved father, my compass, my rock. I could not comprehend a life without him. And yet…I knew.

I told the doctor that I had already made a decision but wanted to know one thing - would any treatment the hospital could provide give my father his speech back. I was sympathetically told no. An explanation was given as to the few options available and potential side effects but I zoned out. There was no variable in this situation. The stroke, the extensive internal bleeding that had been going on for weeks, the fact that the cancer had spread to his liver, kidneys and brain…my father's body had been shutting down for awhile and death was imminent. Any treatment we opted for would buy us a few days. Nothing more. I couldn't let my father suffer and in that moment found the strength to inform the doctor to stop treatment. There would be no more chemotherapy. There would be no more blood transfusions. There would only be a promise to keep my father "comfortable" as his body failed him.

248 Days

Deborah Clague July 3, 2014

After a relatively short battle with cancer, my beloved father has passed away at the age of 63-years. He was deeply, deeply loved and will be forever sorely missed.

Esophageal Cancer: An Infographic

Deborah Clague June 26, 2014

This is an infographic I designed providing more information on esophageal cancer. It may be distributed freely with credit. If you have any of these symptoms, please consult your doctor immediately.

Download the full-size version here.

The Incident x2

Deborah Clague June 23, 2014

There was an incident, officially documented and filed. As a hazmat team was involved, it couldn't not be. Last week, an overzealous orderly transporting my father to his first physiotherapy appointment somehow snagged his chemo bag onto something and it tore open pouring onto my father's bald noggin and hairy back. Hospital staff were less concerned with his wellbeing (he is after all, injecting these toxins directly into his veins) than they were everyone else who may come into contact with it. As a precaution, my father is now banned from leaving the ward through no fault of his own.

There was another incident, not documented but mentally filed by myself. While watching World Cup highlights with my father late at night, one of his many nurses - distinguished from the others by streaks of liberal bright blue highlights in her poker straight brunette mane - interrupted to bring him his final medications for the day. As he has been on this schedule for two weeks, he is now well versed with the colour, size and even texture of different pills. Immediately he inquired what the "new, white big ones" were. This was met with an embarrassed, awkward half-acknolwedgement that she presented him with the wrong medication.

"I don't trust the people in here", my father has whispered to me on several occasions.

I don't know much about football, although I have harboured an intense crush on David Beckham since I was 16-years-old. My World Cup viewing habits thus involve cheering for countries that: a) I've visited and enjoyed (go France and Japan!); and, b) have the best-looking players (go Brazil and Spain!). I think I enjoy the fans and spectacle of the event more than anything else though.

As I observe the national pride and festivity on display, I'm also reminded of all of the grand adventures my father and I have experienced while touring this planet. In recent years, he's talked about backpacking across India, specifically wishing to visit Varanasi after being enthralled with the history and culture of this holy city on the Ganges. I've joked this would be the trip that would kill him. Now I'm trying to figure out how to do it by myself. And I will, even though I'm not as sober and rational a person as my father is or as sober and rational as one needs to be when visiting the kaleidoscope of humanity that I imagine India to be.

It's very difficult planning a life without this man involved in it. Part of me wants to honour him and part of me still needs him terribly. I'm ill-prepared. I don't even know how to put air in the tires of my vehicle for fucksakes. I always relied on him to do it. Vacations, holidays (Hallmark and otherwise)…I try not to think about the impending emptiness that I'm about to face but catch myself at various times during the day obsessing over it and falling into darkness yet again. All of the recent incessant Father's Day advertisements annoyed me; I'm sure the onslaught of Christmas marketing in the coming months (né end of August) will drive me to become even more of a hermit as well.

And then there's July 13. Less than a month away. It will mark my father's 64th birthday. "Will you still need me, will you still feed me?" Yes. Always. But this date will never bother me as much as the others…the ones we are forced socially (and financially) to celebrate. Because this date truly is special and I already have ideas for it now and in the future. I've informed my father of my plans for this date next year and he just smirked at me. He knows me well. I may not always be a calm, sensible person but I am an ambitious one. Adventure is calling.

At Midnight

Deborah Clague June 17, 2014

There is some comic relief. My father's roommate, 49-2, has been in the hospital since last Friday awaiting hip surgery. Everyday, he fasts in preparation. And every night, like clockwork, his starvation is rewarded by being informed that his surgery has been bumped. He now exists on cigarettes and donuts, as that is the only thing available in the cafeteria after 10:00 pm. At midnight fasting begins anew, giving relatively little time to enjoy all the pleasures of this nicotine and sugar rush. Despite this, he remains in good spirits always cracking jokes at his predicament and placing bets as to when he will actually receive the treatment he needs. I've informed him that he isn't getting out of this salmon pink prison anytime soon and have so far been (regrettably) correct.

Visitor hours end at 8:30pm but hospital staff are very lax with enforcing it. I often stay until midnight using this downtime to hone my craft as my father sleeps. Occasionally I read a book I picked up on our trip titled "Secrets of Versailles". When he awakes, I detail the fascinating hidden history of the place we visited just over a month prior. He seems interested but I know the words I speak are soon to be forgotten in the haze of meds that are placed on his bedside table every few hours. The moments of lucidity are becoming few and far between.

But he is still there.

And I know he knows I am still there.

When I do depart, 49-2 always assures me that he will act as my father's sentry in my absence.

Few people stay beyond the visiting hours but those who do get moments of quiet that are ripe for reflection. During this situation, a part of me has felt like a failure for not taking the traditional path that modern life encourages: A spouse to help pay for an over-valued property. An SUV to help haul all of the items required to make that over-valued property seem less empty. A few kids to mask the hollowness of the house and - subsequently - the marriage. There is a societal guilt for not choosing this life and I've been burdened by not giving my father the comfort of normalcy. But then I sit and listen to the conversations that surround a dying man. Of excuses as to why spouses don't attend family gatherings. Of the days when getting a manicure is the highlight of one's week. And I know that my father would not want this banal existence for me, nor expect it of me. He's been teaching me this all along.

It's been an unseasonably cool summer in Winnipeg and has been raining a lot of late. Walking out of the hospital, the reflection of stop lights in the puddles has provided prismatic distraction from the dreariness of literally everything. But one day something else caught my eye. In the distance, city workers surrounded my vehicle. I initially assumed I had been parked there too long and was getting the dreaded boot; then I thought a sewer backed-up as a result of all the rain. As I approached, I realized that it was much more significant than that.

"Is this your car?" one of the workers asked me as I stood agape. "You don't know how lucky you are. A limb from this tree fell, missed your vehicle by mere inches. Must have weighed 3,000lbs."

This instance of pure chance jolted me from my near-constant state of depression to offer a bit of hope that the nearly year-long holding pattern of bad news wouldn't last forever.

The next day when I visited the hospital, and after nearly a week of waiting, 49-2 finally went in for surgery.

❤

Deborah Clague June 15, 2014

Salmon Pink

Deborah Clague June 12, 2014

Salmon Pink

Is a colour that should not exist outside of nature.

Garish 70s pastiche will never be back in style.

Least of all as part of a hospice environment.

An environment where one expects the best in care. The best in comfort. Soothing neutrals, not the migraine-inducing hues of Care Bear vomit. And yet, this is the least of our worries but one that could provide a bit of confidence when it is sorely needed. That could provide a bit of calm in a highly stressful situation. The walls of Health Sciences Centre are salmon pink accented with an algae blue, the coupling of which defies all logic and reasoning in interior design. Good interior design.

I am becoming angry with a colour.

It is the only variable in this situation.

POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE (PART VI)

Deborah Clague June 7, 2014

After Germany we traveled to Luxembourg, for no other reason than to add another country to the loose itinerary we were winging across Europe. As the Aushfahrt sign symbolizes entrance within Germany's boundaries, Luxembourg welcomes visitors with the biggest potholes this side of Bratislava. Its roads are like the surface of the moon!!! I have no pictures of my stay here, nor any real knowledge to impart about this tiny, mysterious nation, the only evidence of my visit being an IBIS hotel charge on my credit card and memories of eating some truly terrible lasagna. Thankfully we would soon be returning to France, my favourite place on the planet and home to the best cuisine in the world.

Traveling south, we made the pilgrimage to Rocamadour.

Traveling north, we walked the beaches of Normandy.

Nearing Paris during the end-days of our holiday, I couldn't leave without admiring the gaudy extravagance of Versailles again. Last year I came prepared: wisely pre-booking everything, I made it through the gates with relative ease. This year was a shit show. My father's sore hip made it nearly impossible for him to walk any great distance, so I ushered him to a seated location where he could comfortably wait for me as I purchased tickets. The line outside of the ticket office didn't appear to be too long; my naive estimation was 15 minutes tops…2 hours later, my father assumed I abandoned him. He would also get to experience the longest line on earth though as we both had to stand in ANOTHER one for almost two hours before actually entering the palace. Springtime in Paris is glorious.

After completing a University of Wisconsin-Madison course on the French Revolution at the end of March, I wanted to reinforce my studies by retracing the actual steps of my current historical muse Marie Antoinette. However, It's hard to have a moment of reflection at Versailles, to soak in the rich history and everyday pomp and circumstance that played out on its stage. One can barely admire the intricate gold leaf craftsmanship without being forcefully shuffled along by other inpatient tourists who spent most of their day waiting to get in. Not much has changed since 1789 it seems; although fighting to secure the perfect selfie is a tad less honourable than social uprising to secure rights for all of mankind.

The view overlooking the Grand Canal in the gardens of Versailles is one of my top three favourite scenic spots in the world. It is inspiring. Uplifting. Visual perfection. Olfactory nirvana. The perfect spot to enjoy a leisurely lunch (as long as you pack it yourself). As my father and I shared a $21 egg salad sandwich that I waited 40 minutes in line for, the increasingly overcast sky threatened to put an end to this short-lived bliss. He was pretty much done for the day, well exceeding his limit for physical activity, and thus it did seem a suitable time to say goodbye. I would return one day. It saddened me that I couldn't say with certainty if my father would. Right after we left, the sky blackened to shades akin of night and a torrential downpour flooded the cobblestone streets.

As we solemnly packed our bags into the Renault the next day, exhausted by our month-long adventure but sad to see it end, my dad asked me to find the easiest route to Charles de Gaulle airport wisely wishing to avoid the stress provocation of driving through central Paris. Unfortunately, the GPS in our car didn't map out our path that way (or I was too stupid to program it correctly). Instead of choosing the easiest route, it selected the quickest…which brought us right through the city again. On the downside, my dad experienced his final "warm" European greeting, the driver of a tour bus we accidentally cut off practically hanging out of his window to shout obscenities at us. I assumed they were; Rosetta Stone hasn't included them in their lessons yet.

The upside was that we got to see the Eiffel Tower one last time.

After returning from our holiday, my father visited the doctor to get a second opinion on his sore hip. He was originally told the pain was caused by a kidney stone. I felt it might be a fracture.

After running tests, he was informed that his cancer had spread.