Sixteen years ago today, my Dad passed away.
The weeks leading up to his death were not easy.
He had been diagnosed in the fall of 2002, when I was pregnant with Josh. He was diagnosed with prostrate cancer. “Don’t worry, Dad”, I told him, “so many men have prostrate cancer on their medical history. It’s the new common cold”.
And I really felt that way, because it was beatable.
Unless the doctor missed a few numbers, missed the seriousness, missed that it had spread.
But at Christmas he was still in good form. I was very pregnant and had an active 16 month old to contend with. Sensing my discomfort and exhaustion, my Dad would say “let me run you a bath”, and he would, and then he’d play with Zach or sing little songs to distract him from me being gone.
Josh was born the beginning of February. My mom wasn’t able to come, as my Dad was not doing well. Confused at the quick decline, I insisted I speak with the doctor.
I did. I sensed his tone. Never coming out to say how bad it was. I finally said, “Listen, I have a 3 week old, and an 18 month old and it’s the dead of winter. Do I need to get to Montreal to see my father?” His response shook me, “to see you father as you knew him, then yes. You need to go now”.
I packed up my babies and went. I introduced my dad to his newest grandson. By then the pain increased, the cancer spreading through his body. I would place Josh in his arms, but Josh was a colicky baby and needed lots of comfort, and my Dad couldn’t comfort him. I’d wait until Josh was asleep and then place him in my dad’s arms or lie him in his lap. Zach would play close by. Constantly looking at Grandpa when Grandpa wasn’t looking at him. He knew Grandpa was not “feeling well”. I sensed that he knew much more than I even knew.
Joshua needed his baby blessing (in our faith, we give babies “a name and a blessing” in their first few months). I wanted my Dad to do it. His wonderful Bishop (leader of their church congregation), who spent hours and hours a week (and then daily right up to his death) came over and helped my Dad perform the last blessing he ever did on earth.
I went back and forth a few times with the boys from my parents in Montreal to home to Toronto . When in Montreal, my dad would occasionally be feeling well enough and would talk. He’d tell me stories of his life. I wish I remembered all the details. He sat in his chair, I’d lie on the coach, Zach would play with toys right next to me and my Mom would comfort and walk with a discontent Josh during those times.
I felt truly blessed to be on maternity leave and have the freedom to do that.
But by mid May, he was hospitalized.
The cancer spread to his bones. The pain had increased. He could no longer walk.
Walking was his life. He was devastated when he stood one day for the last time and fell to the ground. They told him not to get out of bed, but he’d forget, or would try when no one was looking, and get up anyways. And fall.
He told me, “When I close my eyes, I sometimes feel like I am walking. Walking with people”. Like that feeling of sea legs after you’ve been on a boat for so long.
The social worker came to talk to me. “We want to transfer him to the palliative care unit. The problem is, your dad doesn’t think he’s dying. He’s in denial. Someone needs to talk to him and tell him he’s not going home”.
Of all the things I regret, it’s the conversation that followed.
In hindsight. I wish I had told her, “he knows he’s going home. Just not the one he’s lived in for the past 34 years”.
Instead, I had the conversation where I told him, he’s not going “home” but to a “palliative care home”. It took years to soften the memory of the look he gave me (of course I can still picture it, just prefer not to choose that memory). A blank stare, vacant eyes, sadness. I took his hope away. He turned to my Mom and said, “I always thought we’d have more innings”.
And that was pretty much the last time he spoke until a couple of days before his death.
Or maybe it wasn’t. I can’t remember all the details. But that was such a profound memory that I wish I didn’t have.
I left Zach with my Mom the next day and went to the funeral home with Josh. I nursed Josh while walking around picking my father’s coffin and planning his arrangements. Nursing was the only thing that kept Josh from crying and I needed quiet to prepare for my father’s passing. I needed to do it then because I knew when he actually passed, it would be much harder.
I returned to Toronto for a short stint, knowing the next time I was back in Montreal would be the last time and needed more supplies as I did not know how long it would be.
I headed back to Montreal, and my Dad was transfered to the West Island Palliative Care centre. It was a beautiful facility. He had a beautiful room. They set up a cot for my mom. I brought in my double stroller and would walk the halls during nap time. My boys were exhausted from the long days. We all were. But didn’t want to miss a second with my dad.
It was at the Palliative Care Centre that Josh got his beloved doggies. One kind nurse approached me with one day with the “mascot” from the Palliative Care Centre and gave one each to Zach and Josh. This little dog became Josh’s beloved doggie and for years after I would return to get a “fresh one” for him (not knowing that his babysitter, Ti-Tia was letting him keep and snuggle with all the old ones too!)
My brother and family arrived. They joined in sitting by my dad’s side, trying to talk to him. He would stare blankly, or on occasion say a few words.
We would take him outside, and even took him to the lake for the last time to have a picnic with his grandchildren. We also drove by his house for him one last time as he wanted to see it.
One night, with all his kids around, he became much more “with it”. He talked. He shared his last words of wisdom and advice. He spoke to each of us specifically. Words I remember, but are reserved for my private journal. My brother gave him a blessing. Words I also remember and are written in my journal.
With my Dad being a bit more “with it’, and my brother there, we decided we would head back to Toronto for a couple of days (my then husband had to get back to work and I needed a break). We drove home, unpacked the car, threw in a load of laundry, and started to get the kids settled. A few minutes later the phone rang.
“Leah,” my brother said, “Dad slipped into a coma not long ago”. “Oh”, was my response, “how much time do they think it will be?” He didn’t know. But he said, “the thing is Leah, I don’t think he’ll go if you are not here”.
I threw fresh stuff into a bag. Packed my babies up one more time and we drove to Toronto again. We arrived in the middle of the night and I dropped the boys off with their other grandparents and headed to the Palliative Care Centre.
I went to see my Dad. He opened his eyes. He could not talk, although he struggled to speak. It sounded like he had had a stroke as he was slurred and difficult to understand. I told him I was there. I had come back. But it was time for him to go. We would be ok. I told him that I knew he would always be there watching over us. He nodded his head over and over confirming to me that he had heard me and he would be there.
He closed his eyes and slipped back into a coma. Tender mercies for one final conversation.
That was the Wedesnesday night. He hung on until the Friday morning.
I was at my then in-laws asleep when I got the call to come. We left quickly.
It was as if the boys knew. I lay Josh beside my Dad for the last time and he slept peacefully. I was even able to transfer him over to the little cot in the room and he didn’t make a peep for hours. Another tender mercy.
Zach has always had very expressive eyes. And when I told him, “Say good bye to Grandpa”, his eyes told of his deep understanding that this was not the usual goodbye. He sadly looked at me and then leaned down from his father’s arms and kissed his grandpa for the last time. He then left with his dad as I didn’t want him to be there for the final moments.
My dad passed away a couple of hours later. Peacefully and with us surrounding him, and Josh quietly lying on the cot.
We held the funeral several days later. Hundreds came. It’s a bit of a blur. I gave a Eulogy, while holding Zach in my arms ( as he was at that painful separation stage and couldn’t bear to have me leave his arms length). My brother gave another beautiful Eulogy. It was a celebration of his life.
Our Bishop’s wife sang, “How Great Thou Art” in Mandarin. My Dad always said the English version of that hymn was so drab and boring. He always talked about how beautiful it sounded when sung on the islands in Tahiti in Tahitian. While no one knew Tahitian, she said, she would sing it in Mandarin as it had the same “beauty”.
Tahiti. Where he served his beloved mission. Look at his youth (and clearly mission rules were more slack!):
During one of my conversations with my dad during the winter in his talkative moments, I had asked him why he had never returned to Tahiti if he loved it so much. He said life would be different there now and he wanted to preserve the Tahiti in his mind. I assured him I would one day go for him.
Well he was right. “How Great Thou Art” was beautiful in our “stand in for Tahitian” Mandarin version.
The service was beautiful. Strangers came up to me to tell me how my dad had touched their lives. How he met them when he was walking. How he had helped them through a difficult time. How he was non judgmental. How he loved to talk. How he listened. It was a true testament to how he lived his life.
While I have always felt my dad’s presence since he has been gone, the last couple of months we have come full circle.
Zach was called to serve in the Tahiti Papeete mission and will walk in his grandpa’s footsteps. He will reap the harvest of the seeds that his grandfather sowed. He will meet people whose lives were changed by meeting his grandpa. He will hear “How Great Thou Art” in Tahitian and come to love it – and know how to sing it. Zach will never walk the streets alone, look at the ocean alone, or find the brightest star alone. My dad will be with him and that gives me a great comfort.
I got a text from Gabe yesterday sharing how in religion class they had been talking about the changes in the 50’s by the then Prophet and President of our Church, David O. Mckay. He had learned how the mission age had changed in the 50’s and wondered about the influence on my Dad. It was also the time when the Polynesian Cultural Centre (PCC) in Hawaii was established to serve the Polynesian community. He commented how his dad’s (Rob’s ) experience at the PCC back in 2010 had been a catalyst to his own conversion. So many little links that to many are just coincidences, but to me they are the little ways my dad is sending me the message that he is there and watching over us, as promised. I texted Gabe how timely it was that he would share all this with me yesterday – when I had been thinking so much of my dad the day before the 16th anniversary of his death. He responded, “It was just a great glimpse at the eternal nature of things…. crazy how that works”.
I told Gabe that he is hanging around. He was likely in that class with him as my dad loved school. And just as he is in that class, and will be walking with Zach in Tahiti, he will be comforting my mama heart here in Toronto. He will be celebrating the Polynesian and Hawaiian culture with Zandra in Hawaii. He is serving right now with his grandson Tanner in Peru. He is with his great grandson right this very minute who is waiting to come to earth to be born to oldest granddaughter, Melanie (and wondering if this new baby will love Elmo as much as she did). He attends BYU with Abby, he is at all Drew’s swim meets, Josh’s soccer games, Sam’s bike rides with friends (yes, Sam he’s watching if you take your helmet off or not), and agrees with me that Ellen is the cutest firecracker ever. He is at every meeting with Jamie, he is in every political discussion Judy has and he loves to teach Rob the Gospel in quiet ways. He takes the bus with Sarah and looks at the garden with my Mom. And of course, he loves little Reggie, who took on his middle name.
And he walks. (Reggie just wishes he would literally be here walking him, lol). He is on every walk anyone in his family ever takes. Josh will often say no to rides as he prefers to walk and I often think how he is his grandfather’s grandson – and how his grandfather is walking right beside him every time.
He is watching over us. He is here. He is in our thoughts, our memories, our personalities, our mannerisms, our looks and our testimonies.
And he will always be here with us in Spirit, until we meet again.
