248 Days

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. 

The Incident x2

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

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.

Salmon Pink

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. 

129

It's been 129 days since my father broke the news. During this time, I've experienced the best of humanity and the downright most repugnant. The best of the best has been my next-door neighbour, adopted grandmother and Queen Mum-lookalike Annie. When I informed her about the situation, she told me she would add a prayer for my father to the phone-circle that she has with several of her friends. She's been doing this for 18 weeks now because she believes in the power of positive thought.

I believe she is an absolute angel.

You don't need to be of religious bent to be moved by this type of gesture. I'm not. But knowing that someone with nothing to gain cares about you provides its own reassurance of faith that the world isn't as despondent a place as it sometimes appears. 

As often happens in life though, the seedy side tries to eclipse the light. There can be no yin without the yang.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is another neighbour who heard the news through the surprisingly agile gossip community of this 51 unit building. A few days in and still processing everything, I encountered this individual in the hallway wherein they informed me that they used to work in an old age home and have witnessed this particular diagnosis numerous times before. "Your father is going to die a horrible, brutal death" they warned me. Repeatedly, I might add. Standing there dumbfounded at the incredible lack of tact, sensitivity and brains, I continued on my merry way vowing not to let the "words of wisdom" from this village idiot bother me. But it did. It became all I could think of. I obsessed. 

Then my father intimated an encounter he had. A phone call one night from a real estate agent that somehow also heard about his diagnosis and tried to coax him to sell the family home. "I can get you a nice condo which would be better for someone in your condition" they told him. My father didn't say it outright, but I could tell he was clearly hurt by this. His life, his legacy, whittled down in the moment to some asshole trying to score a commission. Seen as nothing more than a dead man walking. No hope. No future. 

My father had his first follow-up appointment last week to determine how successful the initial radiation treatments were. While he is still frequently fatigued and not 100% of his old self, he surprised everyone with the progress made. The cancer appears to be stabilized. He will have to return for check-ups every three months, but this is three months extra time that we didn't expect to have 129 days ago. 

God is in the details. 

91

I spent my Christmas break at the hospital. Not as a patient, but rather a support. The first day though, I wasn't much of one. There are moments when you try and be strong, where you try and deflect the gravity of a situation through sheer will or just ignorance, but fail miserably. I wrongly assumed that because I had spent literally every night of the previous two months crying that I could hold it together for an hour. But I was wrong. And I knew I would be.

My grandfather was there the first day when we arrived, as he had been nearly every day for the previous two months. Taking the bus or, depending on the time of day for which the appointment was scheduled, hitching a ride with my aunt who worked there. It was something he had to do, even though his mobility wasn't always the greatest. Family bonds are strong. A part of me regretted ever moving away, as now I couldn't be there when I needed to be. But I would be there now, for two weeks, fully, completely and in spirit always. We stayed in the waiting room and the weight of reality became even heavier. There was a female patient around my age with her boyfriend. I could see her shaking as she was called. There was an older woman, all alone. I could sense her resignation. Over Christmas break, I often encountered the same faces here. In a way, it was a community. You didn't really have to talk to the person seated next to you, but there was an understanding and there was a bond. I like to think that it was in strength, rather than the condition that brought them all here. 

I had mentioned my time in Kentucky previously. This was the last period of my life where I was carefree. Where I didn't have a fuckin' cloud of worry hanging in my peripheral vision that resembles a violent, shapeless scribble. There are days I feel I can actually see it. And I always hear it. It's been good for work and as a creative outlet, as the intensity with which I try to avoid it manifests itself in ideas and action that I had probably previously just phoned in. But it's there and I know one day it may manifest itself into action as well, even though I pray it doesn't. 

On October 26, 2013, 91 days prior to this journal entry being posted, my father informed me that doctors had given him one year to live. After seeking medical advice on his difficulty swallowing, he was informed that it was caused by cancer. Esophagus and thorax to be specific. I will write about this moving forward for two reasons: one being that this journal is an outlet for me and I can't think of another single event that has changed my life and outlook like this. My father is my best friend, mentor, sentry and rock. I cannot imagine my life without him in it. I hope this takes a positive turn and I can document it here. Secondly, this was completely unexpected for everyone in my family. My father doesn't smoke and rarely drinks: two of the main causes of this particular strain of cancer. If it can happen to him, it can happen to anyone. I'm hoping my writings will educate on this matter and get people to get tested and treated as soon as they believe symptoms appear. There is a much greater chance of survival the earlier it is caught. 

My father's radiation treatment mask.

My father's radiation treatment mask.