A Pillow

There is no clever way to say this. My Dad died.

On April 12 the cancer finally took him. It was very rough there at the end, with struggles to breathe and maintain dignity, with exhaustion and pain.

We buried him a week ago.

My girls, ever the concrete and literal thinkers, obsess over exactly how one exactly gets buried or why those men are singing songs they can't understand in fancy, embroidered capes or what the spear thing is their cousin is carrying or why the bells have smoke or why they can't pull down Dido's baseball cap collection if he is dead now and doesn't need it.

My family struggles with the conflicting emotions of grief and relief.

There are photos I took of the process of dying and moments in the hospitalization that struck me, but they aren't mine to share yet. It's funny, but I think I've crossed the line into some kind of photographer (albeit very amateur) because there were photos I wanted to make, even at the funeral. Making photos is now an outlet for me.

These two photos are of my Baba's embroidery and what we did with it. While we picked the most simple coffin we could, at my father's request, it still had a bit of a ruffly pillow. So we crafted our own. We took some of my Baba's embroidery and appliqued it to a case we made for the coffin pillow. It might seem morbid to share it here, but I know you will all understand. I needed to share the beauty of my Baba's work, and our desire to bury Dad with the work of two generations.

I stood at the prayer and funeral services and delivered the eulogy. It was a challenge, as my relationship with my father was certainly not perfect and actually far from good at times. But he asked me and I couldn't say no. So I stood and told the story of my father and how his story is also mine, is also the story of everyone who knew him. And now it is yours.

I spoke of the need to get down on the floor and play with the little ones even when the dishes need doing or one more seam needs to be sewn. I spoke of never leaving things let unsaid. I spoke of the need to live your life, to make it through the day taking the time to share your story, to create your story with the people around you.

(Read his obituary here)

In Use

That's my Dad's quilt there. It rests on the cot and hospital pillows in my Dad's room. That room is in the Palliative unit at the hospital. He would sleep under it himself, as he did when he first entered the hospital, but the cancer makes him hot (and hungry). He makes us use the quilt as we take our turns spending the night with him. Comfort all around in the darkest of moments.

Death Row Dinners

My Dad is dying. Over 50 years of smoking will indeed catch up with you.

He's now as comfortable as one can be in his condition in a Palliative unit. We've all but moved in with my mom to support her and the rest of the family as we deal with hospital visits, nighttime vigils, loss of appetite and the inevitable stress and pain that comes with all of this. While I've been surviving on Mini Eggs and beer, my Dad has a renewed appetite. Thank goodness for steroids!

On the days when he isn't wolfing down a bag of jellybeans for breakfast or eating chocolate bars when he can't sleep at 4 am, he is planning his next home cooked meal. After months and months of no appetite and a weight loss that will see him buried in his wedding suit from 45 years ago he is nothing short of starving at all times. Unfortunately, all he's doing is feeding the cancer at this point. The doctors have pointed out that he is only eating for pleasure, and not nourishment at this point.

So pleasure it will be.

We get the opportunity to gather for family meals when Dad is released on a day pass. The first time he submitted his meal request days in advance. Chicken, ribs, shrimp, and onion pie. He didn't much care what we served for vegetables. This past weekend he asked for roast beef, real chicken noodle soup, ham, kasha, and raisin pie. Again, he wasn't picky about the vegetables. I guess when you are eating for pleasure things like salad don't matter much.

The meal requests almost feel like he's a death row inmate asking for his last supper. Many of us have been asked what we would want for our last meal, but when faced with the real prospect of such a meal it is the visceral pleasures that win, as do the memories of taste.

There we sit, 8 adults and 6 kids, wolfing down the meal as if it is the last, or the first, for all of us. In a strange twist the kids end up at the dining room table while we adults crowd, with the food, in the kitchen. The meals come together with the efforts of everyone. Someone makes the pie, another makes the kasha, a few of us throw the soup together. My sister makes a roast beef, complete with carrots and potatoes. The salt and pepper shakers that have accompanied us for over 30 years are still there, as is my parent's wedding flatware. The comfort of the familiar in looks and tastes is there for all of us.

We fill our plates, then eat seconds, picking with our fingers from the serving dishes. Carrots, heavy with the pan juices from the roast. Beef dipped in Dad's homemade horseradish cream. Family dinner.

My Dad, with his appetite, wolfs it all down. His inherent grumpiness is not gone, complaining about the noise the kids are making or the roast that the rest of us love. Then, while we sit in the living room, chatting and looking through Dad's high school yearbooks, he periodically wanders back into the kitchen to pick at the meat. Taking in every last ounce of his family and his favourite foods.

Beyond a reflection on these death row dinners, this post is also an entry for the Canadian Beef contest to win a scholarship to Eat, Write, Retreat.

A Break

We interrupt the feature Little Feet, Pins and Needles.

There are more posts to come in this series, but I'm afraid I need to take a break from the computer for a while. My family needs me and I need them. While being here, writing and sharing is quite comforting to me, I need to step away for a bit.

Take care all.