Death Starts in the Feet: A Remembrance Day Fugue for my Father

As this Remembrance Day winds its way down, and I sit at the fire to escape the damp bleak that is Southern Ontario in November, I can see my ten-year-old hand in my dad’s with his wide, wide fingertips, and white fragile knuckles scarred from burns when he was young.

It would have been 1978 and we were watching the parade march to the Thunder Bay Armouries.  It couldn’t have been that cold because I can see my hand in his.  Or maybe it was cold but dry which, as we say in the north, is a different kind of cold.  That is the cold that I’m used to, not the cold damp of here.  I’ve been in Southern Ontario for far longer than I lived up north, but the climate of Lake Superior is where my bones grew and so it is still that type of cold that I'm used to and I like my fire because it dries my insides and warms me up.

I think that 1978 might have been the only time in my childhood that my dad and I went to a Remembrance Day parade.  The next year my mom was sick with brain cancer, and the years after that she got sicker, and then after she died and until I left home I think we might have been just too sad.

My dad was born in 1926.  He was 17 when he signed up for the war in 1943. He was then shipped “south” for training, at Camp Borden I think.  When the war ended, he was on a train west to be shipped out, further west.

Here he is in his uniform. My dad was disappointed that he didn’t get to go overseas after all that training. But I think that bit of luck is perhaps why I exist at all and - shortly before he died, when he recounted the stories over and over and over – I told him so.

The next Remembrance Day I spent with my dad was long after I was no longer a child.  It was in Millbrook, after he came down here to me with the beginnings of dementia and a host of other things.  He squeezed into his old legion jacket and put on his beret and we went downtown.

I can't remember if my dad was well enough to come out for another Remembrance Day downtown. I think there might have been one more, preceded or followed by breakfast at the restaurant, and I think he may have been adamant that he was in Kenora.  I can't remember now if that was Remembrance Day or not.  As my dad's dementia progressed, the present mattered less and less to him, and perhaps that is why I don't remember either. They always had a Remembrance Day service at the long-term care facility in Millbrook where he lived and I definitely remember those.

The last one was in 2009.  I had taken the day off work with the plan to head over after lunch for the service but the nurse called me first and told me to come early because my dad had gone into congestive heart failure and the doctor was on his way in.  

Decisions had to be made. We would skip the Remembrance Day service and head to the hospital instead.  Or at least that is what I thought the decision would be.

And so I arrived and sat on the bed while Dr. Van Loon explained to my dad what was going to come for him.  His heart was failing and would continue to fail.  His circulation would move to the centre of him and that meant that his diabetes would be complicated and his feet, already in major trouble, would get much much worse.  Dr. Van Loon didn’t tell us that my dad's foot and leg would go black halfway up the calf before he died. 

Dr. Van Loon also didn’t tell us that there would come the day when my dad was going to be getting into bed for the last time and it would be obvious that it was so.  No-one could have known that when that day came, in December, my dad would demand that the nurses leave him alone, demand that they stand back away from him against the wall, while he took 10 minutes sitting at the edge of his bed planning his route - planning the full trajectory of his torso and legs, mapping it in his mind – before he gathered his strength and swung his legs onto the bed for what we knew was the last time.  

And then with his characteristic flair, and knowing that there was an audience (my dad loved an audience) he raised both legs straight to the ceiling, held his black toes perpendicular to his body for long enough to inspire something greater than awe, and then dropped them and lay flat.   And that was that.  He didn’t really move again, though he continued to speak and sing for a while more.

One of the things he said, while pointing at his toes, and while he was giggling at his own black humour, was this:

"Just remember, death starts in the feet." 

Before all of that, on Remembrance Day when the first decisions were made, Dr. Van Loon told my dad that he could go into the hospital to see what might be done, as per his Level 4 "keep me alive" instructions, or he could stay where he was and get ready for what was coming.

And my dad, as though the years of annual care-planning meetings and my railing against the Level 4 note had never happened said:  

“Well, why the hell would I go anywhere else?  I’m staying right here where they’ll be good to me.” 

And they were.  For five weeks, right to the end, they were so, so good to him.  I can’t think about the nurses and the PSWs who cared for him, and me, without weeping.  

After my dad made his decision, Dr. Van Loon explained the palliative orders.  He said it could be days or weeks, there was no way of knowing.  While Dr. Van Loon was talking I could hear that the Remembrance Day service in the main hall had started without us.  And then Dr. Van Loon left.

My dad and I tried to listen to the Remembrance Day service from his room until it ended and then sat in the quiet.  We sat side by side on his bed, and he grabbed my hand.  I tried really really hard to be a big girl.  I tried really hard not to cry.  I can see my grown-up hand with its bitten fingernails being squeezed by his, with the wide wide fingertips and paper-thin white knuckles with purple veins.

And then from that quiet, the piper from the Remembrance Day service came down the hall with his bagpipes, stood in the doorway to my father’s room, and played for a good long while.

He did not get to fight in the war, but my dad was a brave, brave man.

Strawberries for Saturday

I'm so glad it's Saturday.  

All week I felt as though I was walking the tectonic plates beneath people - all sorts of different kinds of people.  Or being drenched as though under a faucet.

I was really missing my dad this week and wished that I could go and sit on his bed and ramble on to him and ask him my questions.  That's what I did when I was a little girl, and that's what I would have done this time last year.  But my dad's room at Centennial Place is filled with someone else's life now, and because of that I sometimes feel lost.  I'm a bit lonely without him in the world because he was the only one who knew that I was his Princess.  I was the only one he brought strawberries to at the end of his long work week travelling on the road.  My dad was always happy when Saturday came too.

My dad always said that you have to put one foot in front of the other, and I always know what my own shoes feel like. When I was a little girl, it was something that I really really knew.   

Don't hide from yourself,  he said.  Not very many people are ever able to break free from their cocoon, he said. 

His voice comes like that sometimes, and his picture also shows up on my screen-saver sometimes too.

This is the one that popped up today....  my dad really loved being served first.

My Father's Violin

This is my dad's violin.  Its story weaves all of the way through The Camino Letters, a fact that still astounds me when I read the letters together as a piece.  I didn't set out to write the full story of my dad's violin, and the story of his teacher Ford Rupert. It just happened that way.

I received a letter with a book in the mail today.

The book that was sent to me today is called Run of the Town:  Stories of an Unfettered Youth by Terry West. Terry is the man I contacted when I first decided to submit a story in May 2009 for a book about the Hearst Public School called Clayton's Kids.  Terry wrote to me today to congratulate me about The Camino Letters, which he had heard about from Ernie, another man involved in the Clayton Kids project. Because of Ernie, a woman came to the Winnipeg reading at McNally Robinson last weekend to tell me that I look just like my mother.

I heard about Terry and Ernie's project in 2009 through a client, in a roundabout way.  I didn't know Terry, but it turns out that he knew my father quite well.  And he had a picture of Ford Rupert with the class holding their violins - something that had previously only existed in my dad's memory.  A long-lost, long-ago picture of my father's favourite story.

When the picture arrived, I raced to Centennial Place to catch my dad at the end of dinner.  My dad was always the last one sitting, preferring to sit and chat into the evening. When finished, he would then deliver his licked-clean dishes to the counter. He always refused to let the staff ("the girls" he called them) do this.  He said that they did enough for him already, they didn't need to collect his dishes too.

When I got to the dining room that day, my dad was sitting at the table finishing his coffee - true to form.  I sat down beside him and without saying anything I put the big picture in front of him on the table.

I watched his face.  It didn't take long for him to realize what he was looking at and then he started at the top row left with his index finger:

back:  Lempi Hietala , Marvin Smith, Katy Terefenko, Grace Fulton, Vivian Clarin, Olavi (Oliver) Halme, Brian Grieve, Arnie Woods

middle:  Jane MacEachern, Lois Sprickerhoff, Ruth Lapenskie, Ruth Jones, Jackie West, Leila Joutsi, Stanley Butryn, Nick Olasevich 

front:  Glenna Jones, Anita Reid, Rose Palmquist, Sheila Wilson, Martin Stolz (on drums),  Mervyn Larstone, Willis Rouse, Neda Chalykoff (on piano), Mr. Ford Rupert  

He named them all, left to right, row by row.  I know, because I had the names with me on another sheet of paper.  I wanted to see if this is what he would do, and it was.

The photo went up on the wall of his room and stayed there.  He was never able to name them all again, in order, in that way. Their names recessed into the places of things forgotten in his unpredictable mind.  But in that first moment, time stood still and he was the rugrat in the bottom row right, beside the piano and playing music with his friends.  That was his last autumn in school, before he had to quit to go and run logging trucks in the bush for his father.

In his letter to me today,Terry said this:

In one story (Peasoup and Blokes) there's a quick line describing a pulp truck coming down the street, chains flapping.  In my mind's eye as I wrote the scene I pictured Willis' truck.  I remember especially a strike he was involved in around 1948-1950.  It was winter.  The truckers paraded through the streets, chains wrapped around the wheels.  I associate your dad with this because of all the haulers he was the only one I knew personally.

Sometimes the quick lines are the ones that stick.

Thank you Terry.  Thank you Ernie.