Facing the end
Jul. 17th, 2007 12:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mythtellerThis has been a post that I've been struggling with for days, weeks. It's been a struggle because I don't know where to start, although I know how it's going to end.
My father is dying of cancer at 64.
I look at these words and they make no sense to me.
My Dad's liver cancer is untreatable. His body is slowly shutting down as the cancer spreads. Because the treatments would be so painful, unpleasant, and useless at this stage, the family has agreed to simply let nature take it's course and make him as comfortable as possible.
I just spoke to my mum and asked her how much time my Dad has left. She said she wasn't sure, but it would probably be measured in days, maybe weeks. But she also said that Dad has accepted what is happening and is at peace with it. The staff at the Hotel Dieu are being wonderful with him; they make him laugh and in turn, he's making them laugh. Amazing.
I've never thought of my father as an old man. He retired in 1998 from Bell Canada, but has stayed relatively active since then. He's done some renovation work, mostly volunteer, some paid. He built a solarium extension to the house, he finished the renovations on the cottage. He and my mum travel 3 to 4 times a year (they just returned from Italy about a month ago). He had energy and enthusiasm and was making the most of his newly retired life.
When I went down to Quebec city to visit him a couple of weekends ago, I had never seen him so weak. He spent the two days shuffling from room to room, mostly sleeping. When he spoke, he had something in his voice I had never heard before. I almost couldn't recognize him. He sounded old. It was painful to see, painful to hear, tragic to watch him slip away from us like that.
My father is a good man and I have always admired him. Everything that is good about me comes from him and the example he set for me. He taught me about honor without ever using the word. He taught me about loyalty without ever pointing it out. He taught me the meaning of friendship, generosity, and that there is great value in being a good person, being compassionate, and being true to yourself.
He didn't sit me down and teach me these things formally; he taught me these things by living and by being true to himself. My father is a great man, not because he invented the wheel, climbed a mountain, or made a million dollars, but because he loved his family, his friends, and his children.
I can only aspire to be my father's son.
My father is dying of cancer at 64.
I look at these words and they make no sense to me.
My Dad's liver cancer is untreatable. His body is slowly shutting down as the cancer spreads. Because the treatments would be so painful, unpleasant, and useless at this stage, the family has agreed to simply let nature take it's course and make him as comfortable as possible.
I just spoke to my mum and asked her how much time my Dad has left. She said she wasn't sure, but it would probably be measured in days, maybe weeks. But she also said that Dad has accepted what is happening and is at peace with it. The staff at the Hotel Dieu are being wonderful with him; they make him laugh and in turn, he's making them laugh. Amazing.
I've never thought of my father as an old man. He retired in 1998 from Bell Canada, but has stayed relatively active since then. He's done some renovation work, mostly volunteer, some paid. He built a solarium extension to the house, he finished the renovations on the cottage. He and my mum travel 3 to 4 times a year (they just returned from Italy about a month ago). He had energy and enthusiasm and was making the most of his newly retired life.
When I went down to Quebec city to visit him a couple of weekends ago, I had never seen him so weak. He spent the two days shuffling from room to room, mostly sleeping. When he spoke, he had something in his voice I had never heard before. I almost couldn't recognize him. He sounded old. It was painful to see, painful to hear, tragic to watch him slip away from us like that.
My father is a good man and I have always admired him. Everything that is good about me comes from him and the example he set for me. He taught me about honor without ever using the word. He taught me about loyalty without ever pointing it out. He taught me the meaning of friendship, generosity, and that there is great value in being a good person, being compassionate, and being true to yourself.
He didn't sit me down and teach me these things formally; he taught me these things by living and by being true to himself. My father is a great man, not because he invented the wheel, climbed a mountain, or made a million dollars, but because he loved his family, his friends, and his children.
I can only aspire to be my father's son.
