I am not even sure where to begin this entry. I suppose I should start it at the beginning, back on Thursday, June 6th. I thought it was just going to be a normal day. Neal had returned home from sea on Tuesday and had some time off so he drove me into work. My plan was to try to get as much done as possible because he, Claire and I were going to Saint John, New Brunswick on Friday to visit with his family. Neal’s grandmother had passed away while he was at sea, so we especially wanted to visit with his grandfather.
I think it was around 11 a.m. when I found out that it was not going to be a normal day at all. My phone rang and it was my mom. She never calls me at work, so I knew it had to be something serious. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this at work, Amanda,” she said, “but Daddy died.”
The bottom fell out of my stomach. My heart stopped. I vaguely remember calling over to my cubicle mate, Faith, and telling her. I only half-heard what my mother was telling me.
My mother woke up in the morning and went to get my father ready for the day. He wasn’t in bed, but that wasn’t abnormal; I guess he has been finding it difficult lately to get comfortable in bed so he would get into his wheelchair and go out to the kitchen with a pillow to sit at the table. When she went out to the kitchen, she found him there. At first she thought he was just asleep, but when he didn’t stir to the sound of her voice, she realized the truth. It was how I imagined this scene – my mother finding my father – that haunted me for the rest of that day and the next.
I couldn’t get in touch with Neal right away, so I left some messages for him and hurried up the street to the place where Sherry works. I managed to find her waiting for George to pick her up. As the thought of going home by myself to wait for Neal didn’t sound too appealing, I opted to go with Sherry to their place.
Long story short, we managed to get flights for me, Neal, Claire and Sherry (George stayed home with the girls as they are in school) for Friday evening. We were at my mother’s place in Montreal around 8:30 p.m.
Although there was one less person in the house, it still didn’t seem real. It wasn’t until we went into that funeral parlour in Rawdon and saw my father there in the coffin that the terrible reality finally hit me. I have memories of losing two grandmothers (I was very young when my grandfathers passed away), but there is something especially poignant about losing a parent. Maybe it’s because you are around them so much when you are growing up. And in the case of my father, he was far too young – he was just shy of 67.
This is the man who taught me ride a bike. To ski. To drive. At the beginning of my first job when I was 15 years old, I had some trouble and came close to losing my job. My father came with me to speak to my boss and defended me. Then he came with me at the start of every shift to help me get my gear together. He took me camping. He helped to organize annual overnight ski trips (I went on two of them).
Those of you who know me probably know that my father had a stroke several years ago (~15 years ago). In the blink of an eye, he went from being a rather active man – skiing, hiking, biking, swimming, doing woodworking, being the family handyman – to a man for whom even walking posed a challenge. At first he needed a cane, then he needed the two canes where the top part fits over the arm, and then finally he needed a wheelchair. His speech began to fail. He needed more and more help. And, as we found out very recently, he had been unable to get down the two flights of stairs since December – in other words, he had been literally stuck in the house for 6 months. In the end, it wasn’t another stroke that took him, but a sudden heart attack.
It was the longest, hardest week. Not at all a vacation, but I do have to admit that it was nice to see people I haven’t seen in years. The visitation was on Tuesday and the funeral – the hardest day of all – was on Wednesday. I had just managed to pull myself together after the closing of the coffin when I walked into the church and saw two friends from high school, Natalie and Kathy, sitting there. I didn’t know they would be there and I immediately ran over and hugged them and started crying all over again. I did a reading, and my sister presented an incredible eulogy. We drove back to Montreal after the reception and then we (me, Neal, Claire and Sherry) flew back home on Thursday morning. I took Friday as a day to catch up on laundry and rest, and today I returned to work. It was surreal to return to work, but my colleagues have been so very supportive of me during this awful, difficult time.
I am not a particularly religious person. I don’t adhere to any particular religious institution, but rather I consider myself to be spiritual. But I like to think that my dad has gone to a better place, and that he is now able to ski and run and hike and bike and camp. And I hope he knows that Sherry and I will do everything we can to look out for our mom.
