The Waking Hour

There was chaos on the streets. People running, screaming a language I didn't understand. I wasn't sure where I was exactly, but it was in Eastern Europe and it was a country on the precipice of war. I hid for a moment in an alley, observing the frenzy, unsure of what to do and regretting whatever stupid decisions had brought me here. Life is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, I told myself, and sometimes you have to face an untimely "The End". As I mentally prepared for this, I heard the voice of my father say:  

"I'm always with you, even though I'm far away". 

And then I woke up.

It wasn't anywhere close to the time my alarm normally goes off but it didn't matter - five a.m. and I were now forced to get acquainted.

Everything felt too real. I assumed the scenes of Ukraine's current crisis subconsciously infiltrated my dream as a result of all the mass media I consume but wasn't sure where my father's words originated; ever since July 3, I have been hoping - praying, even though I'm agnostic - for a sign from him telling me that he was alright. His last days in this realm were so full of struggle and strife that I desperately need to know if at one point he accepted his fate. Did he find the peace that we primitively envisage the afterlife provides? This may have been the cosmic reassurance I require … or it could be nothing at all. The previous night, I had a dream that Jack White was sleeping on my couch and I don't know what the fuck that could have been about. 

Next July I'm climbing a mountain. Mount Fuji, to be exact. During his first hospital stint, I told my father I would celebrate his birthday in 2015 by doing this and he gave me the most epic side-eye I'd ever seen, knowing full well I'm ambitious but also incredibly lazy when it comes to physical activity. I now feel I have to prove him wrong. How hard could it be? Thousands of people climb it each year with little to no training. The real challenge will come in 2016: this is when I plan on traveling to India. 

My father always wanted to visit India; its kaleidoscope of humanity proved intriguing. He would talk about it often, always with the postscript "I need to do it before I get too old and sick". How little we knew that time was more finite than imagined. There were always reasons to put it off…travel to India seemed less a holiday and more of an experience that one must be in the right frame of mind to appreciate. He was never ready. I was never ready. Now I am. And I'm taking him with me. 

The Funeral Director warned me that India has very strict rules about bringing remains within its borders. Special certification needs to be obtained. Approval must be granted. After a few false starts in trying to obtain the necessary information, I've been redirected to and have initiated communication with the Ministry of External Affairs of India. It seems like it will be a slow process but I have almost two years and am confident my wish will come to fruition. I hope to spread a portion of my father's ashes on the Ganges at Varanasi, the most sacred spot of the river according to Hindu religion. It is believed that the dead will quickly ascend to Heaven when their ashes are spread upon the water. I may be ambivalent towards faith but if I'm going to do something, I'm going all out. 

My father WILL visit India.

The Eastern European schism wasn't the first time I had a dream about my father. A week prior, I dreamt that he was standing next to me. When I reached out to lovingly embrace him, I was jolted awake the moment my fingertips touched his flesh. Again, it felt real. I was disappointed that it wasn't. Reality remained askew. Staring at the ceiling at 3:00am, partially illuminated by a new office building across the lane, I prepared for another long night as melancholia set in.  

The importance of seemingly simple things becomes clear after loss. Back in May, I visited my favourite bakery in Winnipeg to purchase some cinnamon buns for friends before heading back home to Saskatchewan. Making small talk as I searched my wallet for change, I noted to the cashier how much I loved their goods and that I'd probably be back over the summer as my father had terminal cancer and I would be returning to care for him as the condition worsened. She expressed sympathy and related her own experience with parental loss. She was honest. It wouldn't be easy. Afterwards, she came around the counter and gave me a hug. 

I don't know if she will ever realize how significant this simple, genuine act of empathy and kindness amongst strangers was to me.

I need to get black-out drapes.

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. 

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. 

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.