RETURN <snip> ALMAGUIN NEWS, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1, 2006 VOL.120 NO. 10

- AND ANOTHER THING-

By Sarah Thomas

It is with a heavy heart that I write today, bearing the sad news that Dad didn’t make it after all.

When last I wrote in early January, Dad had suffered the accident only a few days before, and we were hoping for a recovery. Knowing that many of you have been waiting, wondering, and praying, I will try to explain what has happened between then and now.

Certainly no effort was spared to afford Dad’s best chance for a life worth living: from the immediate first aid response to the constant and magnificent nursing and doctoring which sustained him for two months, Dad received the best possible care available in this province. During that time, he underwent four reconstructive surgeries: two on his pelvis, one each to his spine and his neck. Over these weeks, we rode an emotional roller coaster of hopeful optimism, desperation and resignation, as Dad vacillated between signs of progress and regress.

Mom spent time with him every day, and there were many times that she felt he was utterly sensible, responding intelligently to questions with a nod or shake of his head, maintaining eye contact, and most touching of all, trying to smile around all the tubes which provided him with food, air and medications. He also had consistent movement in his left arm, intermittent movement in his right, and occasional flickerings in his feet. Reasons for hope.

I cannot describe all the developments during this time, only tell you that there were good days and bad days. We were particularly eager for Dad’s breathing tube to be removed, because until then, we could only speculate about Dad’s capacity to think and express himself.

Finally, in mid-February, as he was judged strong enough to breathe on his own, this was done. At about the same time, he began to spend a few hours each day sitting up, and Mom reported that his eyes were full of curiosity, following every movement in the room. We hoped that now, Dad would be able to tell us how he felt and what he wanted.

Sadly, it was not to be. Dad never regained the ability to speak meaningfully, though there were moments of heart-breaking clarity, and the strength of his voice, which could have atrophied altogether, was increasing daily. Contrary to our expectations, Dad’s state of mind was difficult to determine and the question of whether he had sustained brain damage at the time of the accident was never answered satisfactorily. At first, the doctors assured us that he hadn’t suffered any, but because his speech and other responses were not consistently sensible, it is really hard to say. It is very possible that he suffered a series of small strokes during the weeks following the accident. It is possible that he was suffering a psychosis provoked by the trauma, and he might have snapped out of it eventually. We will never know for sure. Certainly we would never have pursued treatment if we thought he couldn’t make at least a partial recovery.

Then, on Sunday, February 19th, Dad choked in the night, suffered a heart attack and stroke, which left him, according to CAT scans, seriously and irrevocably brain damaged. After all the progress he had made, he was moved back into the neuro-trauma ICU, and put back on full medications and breathing assistance. Although he could still say a few things, it was clear that he would never be able to communicate effectively, think clearly, or live a quality of life worthy of him, again. It would have meant life in an institution, an unthinkable option. Mom consulted the doctors, and in concert with them and our family, made the decision to let him go with dignity; the heart medications, breathing assistance and food which were sustaining his life were removed.

He lasted three more days, and died while I was en route home to Canada to say goodbye. I’m glad that at least my brother Jeremy, niece Miranda and sister Nell, all said goodbye while Dad was aware of their presence. He drew his last breath peacefully in a private room, my mom holding his hand, a few minutes before midnight last Wednesday.

And so that is what happened, to the best of my knowledge and ability to describe it. It is a sad story.
This is the loss of a valuable, active life. Dad was certainly not done living, had he been given a choice - the man was very much alive. Just a few days before the accident, he cut and hauled in a 12-foot Christmas tree in joyful anticipation of his children and grandchildren. My arrival, especially, filled him with excitement, if only because I traveled so far to get here: literally half-way around the world, from Singapore to Burk’s Falls. Dad always shook his head with incredulous amazement at the thought that I would make such a journey just to see my family. I’m so very glad I did this Christmas; it gave me a chance to spend a few last precious days with Dad. We argued a few times: spirited jousts about the origins and meanings of words, the nutritional value of cheese, and the social significance of video games. Nothing serious - just the usual banter between a man and his daughter whom he inspired always to question everything, to think for herself, and never to take an idea or belief for granted. My favourite memory, nearly my last pre-accident memory, is of Dad doubled over with laughter during a game of charades I cajoled him into playing.

Dad still had his fingers in a lot of pies - grand hopes and modest plans for his beloved farm, and a great number of unfinished projects, which many of you know more about than I: projects to protect and develop this community he cared about with his heart and soul. It mattered profoundly to Dad that people have opportunities to engage in work that profits themselves and their community, and doesn’t line the pockets of corporations hundreds of miles away. He was the champion of the locally-owned and developed enterprise, and a firm believer that we need not, we must not, allow ourselves to become dependent on foreign resources for our survival and well-being. Dad rejected the glorification of “economic development” for its own sake; during his lifetime, he witnessed the degradation of the natural environment, the loss of individual freedoms and the integrity of communities in the name of “progress”, and he was determined to expose this sacred cow of our time for the beast it can become, if left unchecked by common sense, and respect for nature and human dignity.

This doesn’t mean that Dad lacked curiosity about the world - quite the opposite. He gathered information relentlessly about politics, the environment, and culture, always seeking understanding, answers to questions, and more questions. Had we had time, I’m sure I would have heard a great deal more about the local projects in which he was so deeply invested, and he, in turn, would have listened intently to my stories of life in Singapore. Had we had time.

The truth is, it hasn’t really sunk in yet, neither for us, his family, nor, I’m sure, for many of you. Dad gone? How can it be, that monolith of a man, that steadfast pillar, that voice of reason, that sparkly-eyed, velvet-voiced Dad of mine? Dad got himself into a lot of scrapes, and if there was one consistent trend, it is that he was one lucky fellow. Well, not this time.

Part of accepting death is acknowledging that there will be nothing new from the person lost, that we have only our memories now. Our conversations with him are limited to our imaginations, and in his conspicuous absence, we begin to miss him most. If we could collect and pool these memories, render them visible and make them accessible to us all, we would have a far richer idea of Dad than exists in any one of our minds. Yet, of course, this doesn’t replace the man. Strangely, I can’t shake the feeling that somehow Dad must be missing himself. How could a mind as keen and observant as his fail to notice the disappearance of one as vibrantly alive as he? Illogical and paradoxical reasoning I know, but perhaps a necessary step in my grieving.

The day I left Singapore, I spent the morning discussing death with my grade one class. I wanted to reassure them that though I was sad, the death of my father, indeed of us all, is inevitable and natural. We must bury our parents - it is part of our life’s work. As Robert Chen, a Chinese-Canadian born and raised in Kirkland Lake, and one of the marvellous doctors at St. Michael’s Hospital said, “The real tragedies are burying one’s children and leaving little ones behind.

Like all six-year-olds, my students were bursting with questions: How old is your father? How old can people be before they die? Why aren’t my grandparents dead if they’re older than your Dad? Can he still hear you? Will you ever forget him? Why didn’t the truck driver see your Dad? (to which I answered: I believe the truck driver did see my Dad; it was my Dad who didn’t see the truck driver.) I explained that while a few exceptional souls might max out at 120 years, the average age to go is about 70. I shared with them the old maxim that a human is allotted three score and ten years*, and together we worked out the math on the chalkboard: three groups of twenty plus ten. “So you see?” I said. “Dad had his three score and ten and a few extra besides. And it was a good life: he pursued and satisfied many of his dreams and died with the respect of his community and the love of his family intact.” My students and I agreed that if people didn’t die, there would be no room for new ones to be born; imagine how crowded the world would be if we didn’t have the good grace to move along! That’s a reassuring thought, especially when you’re six, and your turn is only just beginning.

“Anyway,” six-year-old Robert informed me, “People’s spirits go to Heaven when they die; my Mom and Dad told me so.”

“It’s a nice idea,” I replied, non-committally.

“Not everyone believes that, Robert,” countered Johanna, another of my students.

“So far, no one’s been able to tell us what happens after death for certain,” I said. “It remains a mystery.”
“Well, Ms. Thomas,” said Jamie, “I think you’d better hurry.”

And we left it at that. My students know that they are free to ask their own questions, form their own ideas, and draw their own conclusions, as long as they respectfully agree to disagree. The ethics of free speech and democracy I teach my students are a legacy of my father, who, along with my mother, always defended and encouraged the capacity of their children to think and decide for themselves.

So here I am. Here we are, just beginning to adjust to our private and collective loss and sorrow, seeking solace in memories, and perhaps in a faith that Heaven does indeed shelter human souls. According to our understanding of Dad’s wishes, there will be no funeral. His remains have been cremated and disposed of privately. Instead, we invite you to join us at a service upon my return to Canada in early April to commemorate and celebrate his life. No, my children, I will never forget him. I will love and remember him for the rest of my life.

At the end of my last article, I suggested that you make peace with your loved ones, tell them that you love them, and treasure every minute of every day, because you never know when it may end. Let me add another request: Know your dreams and live them as best as you are able, for even the longest life is really very short. Dad, I resolve to educate myself better, to read and listen and experience widely and deeply, and never to cease questioning, nor shy away from my responsibility to love and protect the world I live in. And through this love, which opens one’s heart to possibility, may your spirit continue to live after all.

*Incidentally, I checked the Oxford Dictionary to discover the origin of this expression: Biblical or Shakespearian (the latter, apparently). I also learned that a score was first defined when counting sheep, and a shepherd would notch or “score” his staff for each group of 20. Dad would like that.