Death: A Conversational Taboo

People don't like talking about death. I've also come to the conclusion that people don't like talking to people who've just experienced a death. I haven't ascertained whether this is from the blunt, discomfiting realization that our mortal coil is constantly on the cusp of being retracted or if it's simply the fear of becoming depressed by-proxy. Despite being a universal truth, it is something that we avoid discussing as a society instead focusing on more upbeat topics such as how those Roughriders are doing or speculating on the features of the latest iPhone.

DESPITE BEING A UNIVERSAL TRUTH, DEATH IS SOMETHING THAT WE AVOID DISCUSSING AS A SOCIETY. 

I'd never written an obituary before but was aware of the significance of it. It is our bio to the world. Everything we've accomplished in character and essence over a lifetime distilled into a few brief paragraphs. To aid with crafting my father's, I started reading those in my local newspaper. I noted the common structure: predeceased by, survived by, life story imparted with brevity and then concluded with a call for donations to whatever charity most resonated with the deceased. As I skimmed them, one obituary stood out. It was for a colleague. 

I had never met them but I was taken aback. In a quirk of circumstance, here was the name of my regional employer echoing through the column inches of the Winnipeg Free Press even though I now lived in a different city in a different province. What were the odds?

My first reaction was to run and tell my dad of this strange coincidence.

Death is ugly. I had no prior experience dealing with the physical and emotional torment of it other than a beloved dog being euthanized in 2005. I wasn't present in that moment though; I didn't witness their last breath or feel the weight of the room shift as a soul departed. Because death is such a taboo subject, my actualized knowledge was slight and I thus entered with false expectations under the promise by doctors that my father would be kept "comfortable" during his final moments. Comfortable was akin to peaceful in my mind. My father's passing was not. Not until the very end, anyway. He appeared to struggle for four-and-a-half days after his massive stroke to death. 

It was four-and-a-half days of watching someone decline by the hour.

104 hours of witnessing someone heartbreakingly struggle with confusion, loss of coordination and an inability to communicate in any form. 

6,240 minutes of observing the spark in someone's eyes fade further and further away. Of body getting weaker. Of temperature getting colder. 

374,400 seconds of begging someone to let go. "Please, just go". 

During all of this, one of the doctors took me aside to talk about the stages of death, something I had never heard of before. It was an enlightening conversation. It made me realize that I was the only one who had to deal with being uncomfortable. What I had been watching wasn't necessarily struggle for my father but rather a natural pattern that everyone goes through before dying. I'm not sure why no one previously mentioned this to our family considering the diagnosis was terminal. I feel it's something everyone should be educated about as it would lessen the trauma of losing a loved one. Especially one spending time in a palliative care environment. 

Death is traumatizing enough for those left in its wake: I lost 15lbs in two weeks from stress alone and one month on, I still regularly get but three hours of sleep a night. My restless mind continuously seeks distraction from the mire of reality; most of the time this involves artistic pursuits…other times, it involves wine. An endless supply of which is provided by a close friend on their own highway to hell. She's one of the few willing to talk with me, at depth and discomfort, about this subject. 

The day before the funeral on July 14, I took my mother to IKEA. She had never been previously. I wondered if she would like it as much as dad did. During our spring road trip through Europe, my father would always be keeping an eye open to stay overnight in a city with one even programming the GPS in our rental vehicle to locate them. He liked the cheap-eats in the cafeteria. When he was initially discharged from the hospital on June 25, I thought of bringing him to the location in Winnipeg. But first, I needed to find out the accessibility options and specifically if they had wheelchairs available for rent. 

We never got to do this. 

Despite this, as my mother and I rode the escalator to begin the confusing trek through display rooms filled with Stockholm chairs and Billy bookcases, I noticed a row of wheelchairs down below available for use by patrons of the retail behemoth.

My first reaction was to run home and tell my dad. 

Music & Lyrics

Her mind is Tiffany twisted, she got the Mercedes bends
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

Chengdu, China has a population of over 14,000,000 inhabitants and is the communist nation's fourth most populous city but I had never heard of it prior to 2007. That spring, I stumbled upon a travel guide while strolling through my favourite bookstore and discovered that the city was home to a research centre for panda breeding, a site where visitors could actually interact with the creatures. I want to go there, I thought to myself. I want to do that. And a few months later, there I was somehow having talked my father into backpacking around the country with me; our adventure reaching its zenith at this gateway to Tibet. 

Chengdu lacks the sex of Hong Kong, the ambition of Shanghai and the history of Beijing but in itself represents perhaps the most honest portrait of modern China. It is a working class city where, despite numerous temptations brought about by economic virility, family and tradition remain life's top priorities. My father and I witnessed the essence of this one afternoon when we took a stroll through a local park. Younger children marvelled at the koi ponds while their adolescent siblings excitedly lined up to ride the most archaic (and seemingly unsafe) roller coaster I'd ever seen. Grandparents and other extended family members rounded out most groups that were out simply enjoying the company of each other without distraction. This life had become foreign to me. Before I could ponder it too long though, I overheard something that captured my attention. Something distinctly Western being piped through the loud speakers bestrewed throughout the area:

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place. Such a lovely face. 

It was so absurd to me at the time, this 70s AM radio staple about excesses of the high life being played here of all places. My father noted it as well. It made him laugh and was something he continued to reminisce about in conversation for years to follow. 

If I listened long enough to you
I'd find a way to believe that it's all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I look to find a reason to believe

It was an awkward weekend. There's always a shift, sometimes just barely perceptible, when a relationship changes. Of course there's the initial increased heart palpitations of being around someone you fancy, as well as the inability to maintain eye contact or to formulate intelligent speech after friendship turns to lust. These graceless transformations of resolve normally signal something positive though; that one's heart is open to the risk of rejection. This weekend, they signalled its closing. 

There had been problems. Some that were obvious and others that I just suspected. Over the course of these two days, at an acquaintance's wedding in a city far from home, I would be brought to light. My intuition gratified. Angry at the situation and moreso at myself, I flipped through endless television channels on Sunday morning trying to find something that would speak to me. Something that could aid in my spirit rising above the bullshit of modern romance. I came across Rod Stewart's Unplugged set (this was still an era when MTV actually played music). At that exact moment, Rod was singing the lyrics above from his classic "Reason to Believe". Whether fate or pure chance, I found the strength I was looking for delivered by a pietist with a mullet. 

Music is such an important part of my life. I could go forever without watching another film or reading another book but losing the feeling of becoming enraptured in rhythm and lyric would be the end of me. Music provides a soundtrack, sparking memories and enhancing future ones that you may not yet realize the significance of. It is a conduit towards understanding the human condition. Counsel, gospel and friend in symphonic form. I still feel that I owe Rod Stewart a fruit basket or something as thanks. 

To this day, whenever I hear "Hotel California" I am instantly transported to Chengdu. It gets me thinking about my past and present self. About the journey one takes through life and the people who help them get there. Recently I considered playing this song at my father's funeral as it's oddly come to represent family and the importance of prioritizing those relationships. I decided against it as I felt the context would be misunderstood. I instead picked my own favourite song. One whose memory I forever want linked with the person that has meant the most to me in life: 

There are places I remember
In my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one that compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Carpe Diem

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.

Booyah!!!

Received the 2015 Graphis Poster Annual in the mail today. Oblada Creative was one of only four design studios from Canada to merit inclusion:

Life, Love and Fate

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.

One does not fully realize the power of a month, a week, a day, an hour or a minute until time itself escapes us.   

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. 

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.

This excursion - this midnight ADVENTURE - had lasted all of an hour. But it was an hour in which worry ceased to exist. An hour in which we focused on life, rather than death.

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. 

A Digital Footprint

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. 

The Foibles of the Living

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.