Sundays are so hard.

As a young Merchant Marine

On the evening before her 4th birthday my Dad's little sister, Dawn Marie, got hit by a car in front of their house and died.  It was 1945. My Dad was only 12 years old. There are only 2 photos of Dawn Marie that I know of.  The first time I saw a picture of her I actually thought it was me.  We looked an awful lot alike.

Dad never talked about Dawn Marie.  When I was about 10 years old I got the nerve up to ask him about her.  A man of few words he said that she was a good kid. He never talked about how he was affected by her death or how it changed his life.

I think my Dad was profoundly changed by that event. How could you not be? I believe, deep down, he realized that life could be taken away in a heartbeat.  I think the pain of loosing his baby sister resonated in him throughout his life.  I think it defined who he was to become.

I'm sure my Grandparents viewed him as reckless, delinquent and out of control and worried about him as he grew older and became a wild child.  Instead of trying to kill himself with his careless behavior as most people thought, I believe my Dad was trying to live.  Trying to wring everything out of life that he possibly could.  He was filled with the need to do and see as much of the world as he possibly could.  I don't know if it was because of a fear of death or guilt over seeing his baby sister die, but I do know that my Dad did everything he could to suck the marrow out of life.  Which is why it is so hard to see him so frail and small. In a diaper. In a Geri-chair.  In an extended care ward.  With those amazing grey eyes of his staring off into...............where? 
I don't know.

My Dad was...um...how do I say this......strongly encouraged by his local police officer to join the forces. My Dad quit school when he was 16 and went to work in a logging camp and then he became a merchant marine.  I guess he was making a lot of money for that time and, like most of us would do, he spent it on good times...lots and lots of good times.  He was always in trouble with the local police officer.  It was a simpler time back then and in 1940's Nanaimo BC the cops knew who the troublemakers were. 

About a year after he joined the Air Force he found my Mom.  She had joined the Air Force to get out of small town Quebec.  While he was away on vacation she arrived at CFB Trenton.  She had been there about a week when he came back.  One of my Dad's favorite stories is about how he looked up from the mess hall table he was sitting at and saw my Mom for the first time.  He turned to the gang he was sitting with and asked who the new gal was.  "Oh, that's Claire"  My Dad the party animal, that care free guy who could not be held down, was a done man.  "That's the woman I'm going to marry".   One of my Dad's greatest achievements was getting Claire to say "I Do".  He worships my Mom.  I worship him.

My Father with his Nephew and Grand-Neices

I fly out to visit my Dad in Edmonton every second weekend.  We had a phone installed in his room and I call him every day.  It's very difficult for him to talk but I know he listens and I know he hears every word of love and reassurance.  A few weeks ago he was able to tell me he loved me.  His exact words were the same words he has been saying to me since I could talk...."I love you too, babe".  I know I will never hear him say those words to me again and it kills me.  Now he struggles to communicate.  Now all we get is a word or two.  It's not much but I'm grateful for what ever I can get.

This past weekend I was out to visit my Dad.  He sleeps a lot now.  Its a part of the dying process.  I'm always afraid to leave him just in case he's more lucid when he wakes up.  I don't want to miss a moment.  I don't want to miss looking in his eyes and telling him I love him.  I know that soon enough I will never be able to look into his beautiful grey eyes again.  On Sunday I went to see him.  Sundays are always hard for me.  I get this terrible sense of desperation. That this could be the last time I'm going to see my Dad's face.  It makes getting on that flight and coming back to work very difficult. 

This past Sunday my Dad was asleep when I got there.  I dropped off my jacket and went to say hi to the gaggle of ladies who congregate in the hall outside the common lunch room.  They love to see company and no matter how old you get you never stop being a girl, so I like to tell the ladies how pretty their nail polish is, how beautiful Marion's skin is and how lovely they are.  Their eyes get bright and they giggle and blush.  When I got back to my Dad's room he was awake.  Those eyes of his....they just look right through you....full of trust and questions and struggle and calm and sheer willpower to hang on.  They show every emotion. I closed his door and pulled my chair in front of him.  I only had a few hours then I had to leave for the airport.  I told him how much I love him, how handsome he is, what an amazing person he is, how everyone loves him.  He likes it when I tell him stories about his past and he loves it when I tell him stories about us.  I held both his hands and looked into his eyes and told him stories about how he was there for me when I was a messed up kid and that I don't want to miss a moment with him.  I told him I hated leaving him to fly back to Winnipeg.  He looked at me and said "Can I have my hand back?"  I let go of his hand, he brought it to his eye as if he had an itch to scratch.  Then, with an incredibly intense look of concentration, he reached out and touched my face.  I just about died. 

 I spent the next half hour with my face cupped in both his hands looking at him.  It was as if we were studying each other's faces.  I didn't want to forget him and he didn't want to forget me.  If the doctor's trajectory is correct, and I believe it is, my Dad will be lost to us by Christmas.  His regression has been so aggressive.  So fast.  His Vascular Dementia is literally ripping him away from us.  I don't want it to happen but it will.  Somewhere deep inside me I know that half hour with my Dad was a gift and no matter how hard I try I may never experience another moment like that.  I hope to hell I am wrong and I will spend every trip out there to search for another half hour with the man who dedicated his life to me and my Mom.  As difficult as those Sundays are I would give everything I have for just one more half hour with my Dad.