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. 

Training Camp: 1969

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. 

WinnipegJetsletter.jpg

Of Darkness and Light

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. 

Of Life and Death

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

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.