Finished a University of Wisconsin-Madison course on the French Revolution a few months ago but am still fascinated with that particular era of world history. It continues to inspire my personal work including this portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte I designed titled "Carpe Diem":
To order a copy of this 16"x20" print (titled "Carpe Diem"), please contact me here.
Received the 2015 Graphis Poster Annual in the mail today. Oblada Creative was one of only four design studios from Canada to merit inclusion:
To view all images, click here.
Neuschwanstein Castle, Bavaria, Germany (©Deborah Clague)
Helmstedt-Marienborn East German border crossing (©Deborah Clague)
Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp (©Deborah Clague)
I donated blood for the first time this week. I feel it's the bare minimum I can do to pay it forward in response to all of the transfusions my father received during the final weeks of his cancer treatment. Our family got to spend extra time with him as a result of this selfless act and the depth of gratitude I have towards the anonymous strangers who granted us this privilege cannot be expressed in mere words; it has profoundly altered my outlook on life, love and fate.
At Canadian Blood Services, I sat next to a gentleman that had been donating for fourteen years. His epiphany also hit after witnessing a loved one struggle with terminal illness. The day we met was his 100th donation, an achievement I was in awe of. How many lives had he touched? How much time had he borrowed from the Gods and shared with others? I tried to express my appreciation but could barely verbalize it. In the end I didn't have to, he knew. And told me that my father would be proud.
First time donor pin from Canadian Blood Services.
"Are you ready to blow this popsicle stand?"
My father was restless. Desperately wishing to walk - or run - somewhere else. Anywhere else. A fighter until the very end, he didn't want to resign himself to the fate of laying in a hospital bed 24/7. This was problematic though as he was too weak to walk, couldn't communicate his needs and required constant assistance and observation. On several occasions when we were alone, delusions of normalcy would cloud judgement resulting in the need for physical restraint and the occasional scolding when he was especially stubborn. I always felt terrible about this; about negating whatever hope he had left to summon. A return to the status quo of life was all we were both fighting for but one of us had to be realistic. The burden of sensibility defaulted to me. His youngest sister, a nurse, offered a solution and thus a bit of magic happened one night that has left me with a final cherished memory of my father.
At midnight on Tuesday, July 1, the nearly vacant hallways of Health Sciences Centre had lost the frenetic energy that I'd come to expect as part of my daily routine. The silence was occasionally interrupted by the sound of a nurse being summoned or the muffled noise of television being watched behind closed doors by others also restless at the witching hour. Our goal this evening was to take my father on one last trip through these hallways, to give him one last glimpse of the outside world, the likes of which he hadn't seen in days.
My aunt, uncle and I assisted my father (and all of his medically necessary peripherals) into a wheelchair and thus the adventure began. We first brought him to the cafeteria where a yogurt parfait and chocolate mousse were purchased. While being spoon-fed the latter, my father struggled to communicate something. Deciphering his grunts and moans had become increasingly difficult but he was persistent when he had something important to say and we persistently searched for the cues/clues necessary to complete the dialogue. On this occasion, after approximately 10 minutes of guessing, it was determined that my father wished to offer everyone some of his dessert. His character never faltered.
I had been staying at a hotel adjacent to the hospital, so this was our next stop before trekking outside for a brief period. The weather hadn't changed since he was admitted. The winds still howled; the greyness that erased daylight now evolved to blackness which swallowed the stars. There was respite though. If not from the outside environment, then at least from our own emotional turmoil.
It was an hour I will never forget demonstrating the power that a relatively brief instance of time can hold. I know my father appreciated it as well. We didn't know then, but it also signified the last moments we would get to spend with him before he drifted away into his final slumber.
On July 3, the day of my father's death, I received an e-mail from an old friend. The type of friend that one may take for granted, as they define the very essence and qualities of meaningful companionship that are often expected but rarely reciprocated in the Facebook age. I've shared a large portion of my youth with this person commencing when we met in college and, as such, they probably know me better than anyone else on the planet; appreciating my idiosyncrasies and excusing my often questionable taste in music and pop culture obsessions.
After I moved out west several years ago, we lost touch.
Current circumstances would sway fate though. I've grown to believe that few things in life are left to chance. I've never felt stronger about this conviction.
It took me a minute to read the e-mail. The power of 60 seconds hitting full force when I got past the standard offering of condolence to learn that my friend's father had also passed away several months prior. He never told me because he didn't want me to lose hope.
My father knew that I would turn his life into a work of art some day and gave me access and permission to record everything I needed during his final eight months from diagnosis to demise. At times it was difficult; other times oddly comforting. I can only hope that the book I'm crafting does justice to him: a truly special individual that I am honoured to have had in my life.
www.visitisleofman.com Tourism website for the tiny island in between larger islands England and Ireland. Temperate climate. Population, less than 85,000. Official languages, English and Manx. Birthplace of Clague surname and thus, line of ancestry that has led to the present day. My father always wanted to travel here and talked about it a lot. Maybe next year.
www.scootercity.ca Online retailer selling all manner of new and pre-owned mobility scooters and associated equipment. Location, Coquitlam, British Columbia. Google page rank, high. My father had been contemplating the purchase of a new pick-up truck but current circumstances merited researching something more practical on four wheels. The Karma Flare KS343 gets 20 miles on one charge, includes a one year warranty and is currently listed at $2400.00 CDN. It is the Cadillac of scooters.
www.webmd.com Online resource that people visit when concerned about a possible medical issue. Hypochondriac's home page. Current page open to side effects of morphine (oral), listed hierarchically from common to infrequent to rare. Symptoms classified as severe and "less severe". Of the dozen or so pain medications that my father was prescribed, this one was singled out. Something had triggered the query. My father was not a hypochondriac.
www.heartandstroke.com One of Canada's largest and most effective health charities. Throughout its history, has donated more than $1.39 BILLION towards research and education, the latter of which now providing insight in the form of a webpage detailing the five signs of stroke.
These are the last websites my father visited.
I have my own iPad but for some reason, the wifi connection at my parent's house does not like it. Turning on my laptop - and sitting through the 20 second Apple start-up screen which actually feels more like an eternity - is not always practical for the impatient, even though the wifi connects effortlessly every time. My father's iPad had been neglected, sitting unused for weeks and forgotten about amongst the stress of planning a funeral, sorting through Estate matters and trying hard to fill the emptiness with whatever whatever could be used as a distraction. I noticed it one recent afternoon and decided to give it a try.
My father was technologically challenged and didn't know how to send an e-mail but when the iPad 2 was announced, he gave me money to purchase two of them wishing to use the device and the FaceTime feature he had read so much about to video chat with me across provinces (and occasionally half way around the world). He didn't use it for much else, save for the occasional web search which mostly revolved around travel or cars. After turning his iPad on, and discovering that the wifi connection did work on it, I opened Safari to numb my mind by reading stupid, inane celebrity gossip; Justin Bieber's existence could surely provide a chuckle or two at this time. That's when I noticed all of the open tabs…in sequence, a reading of my father's state of mind prior to his final hospitalization (and eventual death):
There was hope (visitisleofman.com).
There was determination (scootercity.ca).
There was concern (webmd.com).
There was panic (heartandstroke.com).
A dramatic structure left for his final digital footprint, sorely missing the dénouement of peaceful acquiesce.
Somewhere, my father is laughing. After distracting myself with funeral arrangements for over a week, the end result was perfect. So much so that the Funeral Director opined that if I ever were debating a career change, I should consider mortuary services (!)
When I arrived - thirty minutes before the service as instructed - there was barely any parking available. Inside, the funeral home was at capacity with many people having to stand or observe the proceedings through the adjacent reception area. It was great to see how appreciated and loved this man was by others. I'm not sure if he was always aware of it, lamenting over the last eight months of being a "burden" to people (when really we couldn't be more happy to aid or assist him). My mother was sick and already crying before we entered to the tune of 'You Are My Sunshine' by Johnny Cash (her song selection to honour her husband). Mentally, I was only focused on not screwing up the eulogy.
Several others spoke throughout the service and it was interesting how all of our tributes hit on the same personality and character traits of my father: that he was authentic; that he fought for what was right; that he had terrible fashion sense. He well-and-truly did not give a shit and whether that was steeped in confidence or delusion, it is something to be admired. His moustache alone was the stuff of legend, often commented on by complete strangers during our travels (and earning him the nickname of "Mister Mistachio" in Italy). He did have a twin though…during a visit to Tokyo in 2009 we discovered the entrance to the parallel universe is to be found at a donair shop in Harajuku.
"Brian, hello! Long time no see" was the greeting from the English-speaking gentleman at the counter as my father still debated what to order.
"Hello", he responded somewhat confused.
"What are you doing here? How is your daughter Deborah?"
My father eventually asked this person where he knew him from…and it was then discovered that my father's doppleganger resides in a small village in England and also, coincidentally, has a daughter name Deborah. I wouldn't have believed it myself had I not been there. This summarizes another aspect of remembrance that was oft-repeated throughout the day: my father was a tremendous storyteller. And yet, those stories were based in fact. He lived it.
At Versailles in April, my father could only walk a brief distance before needing to sit down and rest. At one point during our walk through the gardens, he had enough imploring me to go explore on my own while he napped near the Encelade Fountain. Ensuring he was alright and comfortable, I left for about 20 minutes to take photographs of the Grand Canal and later returned to an empty bench. Where had he gone? I craned my neck in all directions and saw nothing. Assuming he went to the washroom, I sat on the bench where he said he would be and waited. And waited.
After 30 minutes of waiting I feared something had happened. I got up to try and find him and lo-and-behold, after about twenty paces there he was on another bench, slightly hidden by a very well-manicured bush. I asked him what he was doing. Resting, he said. He also claimed to have seen me, about 30 minutes prior, but didn't say anything later believing that I had forgotten about him or chosen to abandon him. This response was absurd for two reasons: 1) I would NEVER and 2) the keys to the rental car were in his pocket.
I returned to the funeral home two days later to pay for everything and give thanks to the exceptional, attentive staff that helped us through our darkest time. There was minor closure with this act. I don't think I will ever accept that my father was taken from me this soon in life (and am fully anticipating hitting a brick wall of emotional anguish in the future) but in the immediate moment, I felt that a proper celebration of life had occurred. My father's suffering had ended. His next journey has begun.
I sighed as I drove away from the funeral home. MY next journey had also begun. Where would life take me next? What ups (and downs) would greet me in the future? Who would I share them with? What — and a thought crossed my mind. "OH MY GOD!" I did a 180-degree turn in the middle of the boulevard and raced back to the funeral home feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet.
I forgot my father's urn.
Somewhere, my father is laughing at the foibles of the living.
My dad's acceptance letter to join the Winnipeg Jet's training camp in 1969. He could have later played for the Chicago Blackhawks had a knee injury not sidelined his chances.
The recurring theme in my life over the past year has been darkness and light. Nearing the climax, even the weather mirrored the sepulchral mood of the events at play: clouds no lighter than charcoal, rain pouring from the heavens in vertical sheets, wind that rattled windows and chilled the core of one's bones. It went on for days with no respite. My emotive state was also one of deep depression. My father was far too young (and undeserving) of what was happening to him; I was too young to not have in my life. The fact that I had to, in effect, give consent to hasten his demise made me sick. What a strange circumstance to be faced with - taking life away from the person who bestowed it. It was not something taken lightly. My internal psyche is still confused and repulsed by it. I just didn't want him to suffer. As he laid in his hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, all I could think of was that he was already gone.
Despite reassurances from the doctor that I was making the difficult but humane (and brave) decision, I felt like human garbage…and little did I know that this would only get worse. As I visited my dad one morning (his third day in the hospital after suffering the massive stroke), I would be brought to feel lower than the sludge on Satan's hooves.
"The Clague family is heartbroken over the choices you are making."
The conversation with my aunt had started amicably enough. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, came this statement repeated several times over with increasing wrath. I should have opted for more radiation treatment, I was informed. I should be getting a second opinion, I was told. I was being selfish for not allowing him to die "comfortably" at home, it was implied. All stated while my dad laid in a vegetative state in front of us. Breathing - and listening - but unable to communicate his own thoughts and feelings. I never imagined family strife arising from our situation but the stress of current events had clearly boiled over. I am not one that takes to being provoked though and I was certainly not about to let someone whom I believe felt guilt over only seeing my dad a handful of times a year (at most) tell me what was best for the man I had spent every single day of my existence with. Prolonged suspension in the state between life (as we know it) and death (as we believe it to be) would be cruel.
Shamefully, regrettably, the first of many loud, expletive-filled arguments ensued that morning.
I did get that second opinion. And a third. And fourth.
All expressed sympathy. All reaffirmed that my father was exhibiting signs of impending death. All regrettably informed me that there was nothing they could do but keep him "comfortable" in this state. The hospital was the only place for this to happen.
The last night I spent with my dad was overnight on July 1 until dawn broke on the 2nd. I attempted to rest in the bed adjacent to his but spent more time drawing portraits of him on the whiteboard, reflecting on the amazing life this man gave me and just listening to him breathe. The skewed scenario reminded me of sharing a hotel room on one of our many trips together; I always complained about his snoring, which was epic. In Rome a few years ago, I remember taking my pillow and blanket into the bathroom in an exasperated attempt to catch a few zzzzz's on the floor because his decibel level was too much. Little did I know that someone in an adjacent apartment would be equally as loud, singing from their balcony during the wee hours of the morning. At times life is a comedy; others a tragedy. I would give anything to hear that snoring now. To listen to him breathe without pause.
I whispered my goodbyes and reassurances that morning.
My father died in the early hours of July 3, 2014. It was the first blue sky overhead Winnipeg in nearly five days.
I always pictured the death of a loved one feeling as though I was in a vehicle driving away from them…frustratingly unable to reverse or turnaround and frantically watching them become smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
In this instance, clearly indicative of how great a parent and best friend Brian Clague was, I view it as the passing of a baton in a race. He has given me so much. I can only take it and run. May I be half as great.
