The Last Lesson
My Dad and I in hospice. Photo found on my phone several days after his death.
The Last Lesson
I have had the privilege of witnessing six people die.
My twin girls Natalee and Celina, my business partner and close friend Roz, Lee my mother in law, and both my parents, Vi and Doug.
Death was different for each one as life was for them as well.
Some linger quietly, some fidget and fight and others just slip into that great unknown at precisely the time you leave the room to get a coffee or have a bathroom break, finding it easier to leave on their own. While my six experiences accompanying someone as they leave earth are all deeply moving, the one that perhaps can help others, was the death of my dear Dad.
Perhaps in fairness, his death had so much more meaning for me, precisely because my mom had exited this world seven years earlier. Her departure had somehow opened a portal for my Dad to connect with me in a way that was impossible growing up. My Mother was the disciplinarian of the house and as I hit the teenage years, I rebelled against the strict rules she imposed. My father who use to be my biggest ally, suddenly switched sides. I began to feel we were both fighting for her attention. I rebelled, and my father acquiesced to her. It became our family dance. After Mom died, things slowly changed. I took extra time off work and away from my family, to spend one on one time with my Dad. We visited England and took Moms ashes back to her homeland for burial, something that gave him great sense of closure. I treated him to trips to my house in Mexico which he adored and we would walk arm in arm on the beach for hours, uninterrupted just the two of us. We took a bucket list trip to Iceland and he ate lobster soup for the first time. We swam in the Blue Lagoon and we both thought we had died and gone to heaven. On these trips and adventures we laughed as he recalled his previously undisclosed university hijinks, his early dates with Mom( and the numerous females that got away) . I understood this opportunity was special. I didn’t squander the time. In between the jokes and humour I broached the serious topics too, like what he felt had worked out well in his life, what he was most proud of, and importantly, what he regretted. We discussed his wishes for the end, whenever that would happen, and in those five or six years of holidays together I had no unanswered questions. I even broached a very sensitive topic. In the hospital shortly before Mom died, she had great difficulty telling me she loved me, despite being a great caring parent throughout my life. My Dad confessed he wasn't sure how much she really loved him either. And that, made my pain more bare-able, knowing we both had felt her distance.
Dad, decided in the fall of 2017 to make the move to a retirement home. He had advanced macular degeneration in one eye and remaining in his home alone in Ontario, was getting more difficult. I suggested ( for the umpteen time) he move out to the west coast, closer to me. So for Thanksgiving I bought him a flight and broached the subject cautiously saying he could try it out for a few months, before making any big decisions. He agreed that despite wanting independence, the house, his garden was getting too much and perhaps being closer to family was now imperative.
My Dad turned the water off at his home, as was his practise when leaving for long periods of time, and ever up on modern innoventions, hailed himself an Uber cab for the ride to the airport. . His next door neighbour recalled to me later, “I saw Doug standing on the sidewalk staring up at his home, his suitcase parked by his side,
and thought, “He looks like he is saying goodbye to his house” She was right. He would never return.
Dad arrived in time for Thanksgiving dinner, and three weeks later, we were in the final days of his death.
Always the practical person, Dad had a medical checkup before leaving for my home on the coast. The Dr called us with the bad news, saying she had found matasteis cancer around his liver and gave him less than two months to live. She was in hindsight , generous on the time left.
My healthily 89 year old Dad who had no symptoms, pain or illness was gobsmacked as my friend Roz would say.
We both could not believe this was happening.
In his shock and disbelief on hearing the doctors prognosis he went to lie down, but tripped, landing on a very sharp trunk with metal sides and deeply sheared off the skin on his right arm.
That awarded him an ambulance trip to the hospital, where he went from emergency needing stitches, up to oncology where they had little to offer him, and finally palliative care all within three short weeks. He simply plummeted downhill on the bad news.
For what would be the last week of my dads life, I lived with him in a beautiful hospice suite with peekaboo views of the Ocean.
I played his fav songs in his iPod and read his fav stories aloud. Heavily sedated he would sleep for many hours then wake and want to talk.
One afternoon as the sun was setting and the light was streaming into the hospice room I heard a nurse quietly enter. Dad was sleeping and I had my usual position sitting by his bedside, stroking his hand.
She said “ have you seen how your fathers aura is getting larger as he prepares to leave?
The question kind of shocked me.
She continued “ your dad is leaving and each day he learns how to do that. That’s why he is gone for longer time periods as he navigates how to leave this earth and go to the next place.
Come and see his aura” she instructed.
She was standing at the foot on the bed, and I quickly joined her, hoping to witness this magical aura she was seeing.
I saw my dad, sleeping on his back with his mouth open, snoring.
“No I’m sorry I can’t see anything.
“ That’s ok , she said, it takes time to see the aural of the living ....
As they leave us.
“You are so fortunate to be here with your father.: she continued.
You do understand, your dad is teaching you the last lesson, how to transition, how to die and leave this earth.”
Until this moment, I had not thought of this time as a learning opportunity.
My dad had been so good at teaching me all the other lessons through my life, it really should not have been a surprise that this, the last lesson, was his to teach.
He knew me just nine months less than my mom, but quite possibly, awaited my arrival with more unbridled excitement by virtue of being a father, unfettered by female pregnancy worries and concerns which my mother had.
He remembers the nurse presenting me- tightly wrapped in a pink blanket- as they did in those days for proud fathers in the waiting room- and he would repeat the story as often as I wished always saying the same line..." all I saw were two big unblinking brown eyes starring back at me"
I have been watching him ever since.
Playing the piano, dancing a long waltz or a quick fox trot with my mother, pruning and planting, bandaging my knee, reading me a story, and riding in the car, holding his right ear, as I stood up behind him in the backseat, long before child seats were invented.
He taught me how to read, write, spell, use a sharp knife, do math, ride a bike, plant a garden, paint a room, drive a car, change a tire, everything he knew, he taught me how to do it as well.
As my dear Dad transitioned between this world and the next he would talk of his travels. At first I thought the heavy pain meds were causing drug induced dreams.
But I faithfully wrote everything down knowing I would have time later to give them careful consideration.
My father spoke of people I did not know. He recalled collecting Johnny jars, which I later learned were jam jars given to the cinema owner named Johnny for entrance to the movies during the depression. One day after a long sleep he said he had been told to study a big map, with a miríada of lines and he was confused which way to go. A few days later he commented again on that same map, now confident he understood the lines he was studying were identical to the lines on his palm. He knew which way to go, was his comment.
Dad died two minutes before noon on October 30th. I was glad he had exited before Halloween.
I figured the lost souls would be crowding the celestial highway that night.
One of life’s secrets is that we don't really grownup until we lose both our parents.
I remember feeling orphaned. I would pick up the phone and begin to dial my parents number every time something interesting happened or just to say hi. And then realize they were both gone, and slowly put the phone down. That habit was hard to break.
Now I like to think, my Dad is without pain or blindness, his dancing legs back and his sense of humour sharp. I can not cry for his flight as it is what we all must do, and feel only gratitude for the years he steadfastly loved me. I can however, shed tears for the hole he leaves in my heart.
A huge tear, as the parental parachute falls away and I'm left with just the scent of his aftershave and the faint notes of a piano playing as I fly solo, the last connections to my birth gone.
I returned to the hospice after Dads body had been transported for cremation, with a bouquet of flowers to thank the nurse with the wisdom to point out that last lesson to me. I had only seen her once that week, and remembered her name from the nurses badge she wore that afternoon. I discovered, much to my surprise, that no one by that name worked at the hospice centre.
Today I am no closer to identifying the mystery nurse, but I share this story in the hopes you will remember it and when your loved ones leave School House earth you will view their transition differently, as a last lesson, a final gift of guidance and love into that good night.
