The Death of Dartagnan
INTRODUCTION
This is the true story of my father's illness and death as I have experienced it during the fall of 1997. I have chosen this topic because I couldn't avoid writing about it. It is by far one of the most profound emotional and spiritual life-altering experiences that I have ever lived. I have also chosen not to censor some events and phenomenon who might appear strange or surreal, because they were real to the people who experienced them. I have inserted the events in a chronological order to facilitate the reader's comprehension of the unfolding of the occurrences.
As an interfaith minister, I am a believer that events have meaning and power. I also believe in the presence of a greater intelligence, be it God, Great Spirit, Great Architect, Higher Power of whichever label one prefers to use. I like to call it the Infinite Universe, where each molecule, atom and energy particle have a place to go at a given space and time. I address the hardships of my life as opportunities to deepen my learning experience while I live on this plane, on this planet, at this time. Consequently, I have viewed my father's illness and death as a learning process to both assess my relationship to him, in the present and the past, my relationship to my children, my ex-husband, to Rich, my partner, and to everything I chose to do or not to do.
I am dedicating this memoir to Claude, my father, who has welcomed me to assist him in one of the most important passages of his life.
THE NEWS TO HIM
Friday, October 3
Claude has recently decided to let his hair be the natural gray it had been for over thirty years. He has also taken on drinking cappuccino, which he vigilantly prepares every morning for himself and his partner of four years, Françoise. This morning, as he goes through his morning routine, he looks at the clock incessantly. When 9 AM comes, he has to call the hospital and get the results of the tests he has taken last Monday.
He gets his diagnosis: Carcinoma of the soft tissues, a very aggressive, malignant cancer. Today is his 64th birthday. With Françoise, they cry in each other's arms all day long. They had both retired and bought a house in the country to move into, just a week before. The news crumbles their dreams.
THE NEWS TO ME
Monday, October 13
I am hit by an avalanche. The weight covers every inch of my body. I am cold. The sudden silence is pounding in my ears. My breath is still. As I hang up the phone, my mind starts racing. I can't even hear myself think; a tornado has caught up with me.
I make my way to the kitchen where Rich is waiting for me. My father has cancer, I hear myself say. As his arms embrace my body, my heart melts away, surrenders to my tears. His words, I know how it feels, I've been there, echo softly and soothe my pain. His soft red beard brush against my cheek and comforts me.
The next day I call Mary, my mentor at the college. I am quitting. I can't stand the pressure, I can't do this, I explain to her. Family, work, school, getting divorced, and now with my father's illness, it is too much for me right now, I tell her. There is a short silence, the one where thoughts are weighed because as words they will have an impact. You can't, she answers. You can't quit, you can't quit now. Remember that there will be
the before, the during and the after, and nobody knows how long any of these will last. You will have to learn to deal with it and move on with your life, through it all. I hang up. She is right, but the plain truth is hard to accept.
A DIFFICULT FALL
October - November
The alarm goes off. The moon is still out, a small but distinct crescent on the horizon, just below the Orion Belt. As I step out of bed, the chill of the morning slowly wakes me up. I turn on the stove and make myself a cup of Wild Berry Zinger tea. I sit at my desk and ponder, again, about the night that just went by and the dreams that accompanied it. I shake my head and begin to work. There's nothing like Statistical Inference to start the day at 5 AM.
At 6:30, I wake up Ilan. His sleepy face surrounded by his tousled hair tells me he would rather stay in bed. Daily routine obliges, so he gets up, puts on his favorite jeans (the ones with both knees torn out), eats his Cheerios with vanilla soymilk and practices violin. As he heads down the driveway to catch the school bus, Leah, the first day care child arrives and plays with Naomi, who just came down the stairs.
At 9, Cathy arrives to relieve me from the day care duties. The seven children run around with glee. Unlike me, they have had a full night of sleep. I retire to my office to continue some Statistics. I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tune out the kids' squeals and concentrate on today's homework. I am distracted. Images of my dreams haunt me.
At lunchtime, I take a leave from my haven to prepare the meal for everybody. Food has no appeal to me these days. I eat because I need the fuel, but taste nothing. Cathy has been noticing the half helpings I serve myself and tries, to no avail, to motivate me in getting seconds.
It is 1 PM, Cathy has just left and the children are down for naptime. I inhale the silence that permeates the house. More homework interrupted by memories of my dreams, which I've had recurring all week. I dream of my father, shriveling in his hospital bed, aging so fast, death crawling under his skin, his bald white head pulsating with blue veins, his eyes, dark and deep. And then I wake up, and stay up for hours as I reflect on Claude's illness, on what it means for me to lose my father as I divorce his carbon copy: two men that I have rejected lately because of the abuse I have decided not to bear anymore by either one. I also ponder on life's futility, on Zen and the art of living and dying and of how to slow down the train of my life so I can catch my breath and assimilate all of what this means yet I can't slow down because I can't.
As the afternoon comes to an end, I wake the kids up, serve snack, and welcome Ilan back from school. As the parents pick-up their child one by one, some notice my weary eyes and offer words of support.
At dinner, as we sit around the table, I feel fortunate to have these three wonderful beings sharing my daily life. They are so buoyant, loving, beaming. I thank God to grant me this day and ability to appreciate Rich, for his generosity, love and outstanding support; Naomi, for her genuine affection and tender heart and Ilan, for his sensitivity and presence.
As I hand out bath toys to Ilan and Naomi, my body screams for a respite. It has been a long day. When I cuddle Naomi to sleep, I almost fall asleep myself. I sluggishly step out of the children's room, go downstairs to start a load of laundry. As Rich practices guitar in the living room, I try to get a hold of Linda, my sister, who lives in San Francisco, with whom I have daily contacts. Either she or I call the hospital every day to gather some news and then we share the news to the other.
From the start I have had this ominous feeling that Claude would not make it. Yet Linda is hopeful, although signs of fast deterioration are obvious. Bernard, the oldest of the family, is the only one who lives in Montreal and gets a chance to visit him as he wishes. He sees the decrepitude. He says I won't recognize him, especially since his hair fell out because of chemotherapy. But I tell him, I see him in my dreams, I visit him every night.
My body slouched on the sofa, I listen to one of Bach's suite for guitar played by Rich. The minutes, the seconds are still. The time warp of the day comes to a halt. My eyelids are heavy, so I go run a bath. The bubbles feel soft; the honeysuckle smell tickles my nostrils. The candlelight dances on the wall. As the cells of my body soak in the heat, my mind races, as I try to sort through the labyrinths of my life.
The covers up to my chin, the sweet smell of the snow comes in from the open windows. I snuggle up on Rich's shoulder and fall fast asleep. Maman! Maman! Naomi calls for me. I wake up from a very vivid dream and walk to her room to see what it is going to be tonight. The covers are off and she is cold. I am hopeful that tonight I might be able to sleep better than the night before, where she woke up every hour altering between her fears of monsters and cramps in her legs. As I slip back under the sheets, trying not to wake up Rich, I look at the clock: 2:43 AM. Good, maybe I can sleep another two hour before my alarm goes off.
The images of my dream keep turning in my head on replay mode. In this dream, I arrive very late at my friend's Eliane's house for lodging and am told by my sleepy host to use the guest room, at the end of the hallway, on the right. As I enter the bedroom, there is my father, sitting at the desk, his back to me. As I approach, he turns to greet me and he is himself, only what he used to look like three months ago. He gentlemanly offers me the chair and sits on the bed, facing me. As I start talking to him, I am rather distressed because I know that it is only an illusion, an image of what he used to be. I begin telling him about my discomfort. I begin sharing with him that I think his difficulty to welcome us now that he is on his death bed is related to the fact that he doesn't want to be seen like this. I have over thirty years of memories to cherish and want to be with you during this difficult transition time. As my voice echoes in the stillness of the night, his body starts to shrivel down until the state that he is now, a bald cadaver, waiting for its last breath.
As the seconds and the minutes and the hours go by, I am completely absorbed by the images of my dream and how they ring so true. He does not want to be seen like this, completely vulnerable, helpless.
TALK WITH THE DOCTOR
Thursday, November 20
Dr. Hings and I have had one phone conversation at the beginning of the month, when I asked her to give me honest answers about my father's diagnosis, treatment and prognostic. This time I am calling her because Claude has been going downhill really fast in the last week and I am beginning to think that the end is sooner than anticipated.
Yes, she says, I thought it would be a matter of months before your father dies, but now I am more certain that it will be within few weeks. Have you mentioned this to Claude? Not yet, because until now there was still hope that the treatments would slow down the cancer, but because of his pneumonia, we weren't able to do anything. As anyone talked to him about death? No. I am worried that my father will die wrapped up in his fear of death. Mortality has been a taboo subject for my father for as long as I can remember and I feel it is needed to be addressed at this time. The next day, Dr. Hings talks with Claude about his imminent death. As Claude listens, tears run down his cheeks.
DEATH AS SALVATION
Sunday, November 24
Just after dinner, as Dr. Hings does her last round, she tells Claude that it will be a matter of days before he dies. The reality is harsh but he chooses to open his arms. I want to see everyone I know and say my final Good Bye, he answers, to everyone's astonishment.
For the next two days, a train of people pass and receive a message, come out teary knowing that they will never see him again. I am dying, he would say, looking deep into their eyes. It is time for me to leave and go meet my mother.
My father had lost his mother of tuberculosis when he was four years old. He always felt her presence and throughout his life, held firmly to her picture in his wallet. He was sent to an orphanage in La Malbaie, overlooking the St.-Lawrence River and hated it. He was given a boiled onion to eat at every meal, to strengthen the immune system, the Brothers would say. Until this day, he resented eating onions and would tell us of orphanage stories as soon as a bite of onion would mistakenly end up in his plate.
My mother, Thérèse, Claude's wife of 40 years, got to meet Françoise for the first time. The exchange was cordial, but tense, as they both were saying their farewell to the man they both passionately loved, one in the past, the other in the present.
COME NOW
Tuesday, November 25
It is 2 PM. I receive a call. Linda who flew to Montreal from San Francisco that morning tells me that I should come fast because he is not doing well at all. I had planned to leave the next morning, because I had to organize and prepare the day care for the days I was going to be absent, but the adrenaline kicked in and was through getting everything ready by 6. Rich cared for my children that evening and opened the daycare the next morning until my assistant showed up. He did so, very generously. I feel overwhelmed by the pace of the events. I am so grateful to have Rich in my life, who genuinely offers unconditional support: a lesson for me who needs to learn how to receive.
On the way up north, I beat my own record in driving time from New Paltz to Montreal. I am trapped in my fear of arriving too late and wish to be there already. I get to the hospital and jump into Françoise's arms who collapse. I'm so glad you made it on time; I was so afraid that you would not see him before he died. Everything has been going so fast, so fast, she says, weepy.
We spent a couple of hours talking about anything and everything, got to know the woman with whom my father had decided to spent the last years of his life. He had kept his relationship completely private. He didn't want to let anyone between the two of them.
HUMOR, INSIGHTFULNESS AND ANGELS
Wednesday, November 26
From his hospital room on the 17th floor, the cars below look like toys. The town, the air, the rooftops, all is white with snow. The busy-ness of the city is hustling.
Claude wakes up. After a few moments, he gathers his senses, looks my way, his gaze into mine. Myriam, you have arrived, he softly says, with a smile. I hug him and rub his bare head.
We talk. I share with him childhood memories. I tell him that every time I grab sandpaper, contact glue, a Phillips screwdriver or the circular saw, I see images of him, I hear his voice. I tell him that now, when I do work around the house, Ilan is my helper. He smiles.
He doesn't want to eat anymore; only a bite here and there to soothe the stomach, but no more. He soon falls asleep for his morning nap and I sit next to his bed. His right shoulder is nested in my hand, like a small orange. His other shoulder, with the cantaloupe-size tumor, is pulsating with blue veins. My hand holds his small, muscleless hand. The cancer-ridden arm and hand are swollen, the tumor restricting the circulation.
After his nap he requests that the visits be limited to his children and Françoise, only. He wants us in the room. I am ready to leave, he tells us, make a circle around the bed and hold hands. We close our eyes. A cylinder of light descends over the bed. Northern lights-like beams dance within the cylinder. Claude's invisible double is standing, ready to go. Claude's physical body wakes up and says, I have to get up, I have to stand, I have to go now! Claude, you are paralyzed, you cannot get up, Linda answers. It is so beautiful, it is so beautiful, I cannot believe I am back, he mutters.
After a short coffee break for all, we gather back and sit down again, he has a message for each one of us and for his grandchildren. He tells Françoise to live her life, to live it now, to continue and move on. Remember Françoise that you get to choose, he says, with a smirk. We look at each other, this is an inside story between Claude and Françoise that is drawn forth as we learn that when they met, another man was courting her and she chose Claude.
When Linda's turn comes up, she says, We do not have a grandchild for you to give a message, but as you know, we have been trying hard to conceive a child for the past two years. When you go to the other side, can you look around and see if there is a little cherub ready to come down? I will make it my utmost priority, he answers, looking deep into her eyes, but you will first have to give me a few days.
There isn't one pair of eyes that is dry in the room. He asks us not to cry, not to be sad. But we are moved by what you have told each one of us, can we be inspired by your strength and courage and beauty? I ask, teary. Yes, in this case, it is okay then... but you know, I have some flaws that I have tried to hide from all, throughout my life, but they are there, you know, and... I interrupt, Are you trying to tell us that you are not perfect? Everyone laughs. My father has always tried to pretend that he was above it all, in all circumstances, and now he surrenders to his humanity. I am moved by his lucidity, his egolessness. Where is the father that I have known, the rage-aholic, arrogant, self-sufficient, egocentric man?
We get quiet again and close our eyes. Two small angels are behind his back, pulling and tagging, trying to help him leave. Claude wakes up, my back hurts, he says. The two little angels stop, disheartened, look at each other and leave.
I am getting too much love from all of you now, I can't leave, he says. But the love was always there, Claude, only now, you are able to receive it, I say, as his eyes water up.
We are asked to leave, he wants to spend some quiet time with Françoise now.
IT'S QUIET TIME
Thursday, November 27
Françoise has been alone with Claude since the day before. Linda expresses her concerns that it isn't probably favorable to leave her alone like that for so long. Minutes later, Françoise shows up and tells us that Claude doesn't want her to be alone anymore. As his children, we take turns, one at a time, so as not to clutter the room.
At times Claude wakes up, whimpering because of the pain. He mutters, I cannot complain, I cannot complain, there are many worse than I, many. But you now belong to those Claude, you are among the worst. No, there are many more worse than I, those who are alone, suffering, those in Third World countries who are abandoned, political prisoners, who are tortured, they are all worse than me, he says. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I am completely absorbed by the words he just said, by the unsettling truth they carry.
At times he wakes up, his gaze filled with apprehension, what if I go to the wrong place? he asks. You are going to go to a beautiful place, you will meet your mother, Napoleon, Alice, Gigi (and party 'till midnight again), Roland (and tease him 'till eternity) and others you do not know, I answer.
Lunch arrives and Claude wants to taste some chocolate pudding. After his first spoonful, his eyes get wide and large and he says, gleefully, this is good! After many more, and many more of the same joy of tasting, he says, I have to stop eating this or I will never want to leave this place!
During his afternoon nap, I listen to his breathing, my hand rubbing his bare head. I comment to Françoise about my amazement as to how Claude has learned, through his relationship with her, to live the present moment and enjoy the little pleasures of life. She is surprise, for she has always known him that way. She adds that he, from the time they have met, has sent her love letters, notes, faxes, E-mail, every day, and that she has kept them all. Claude was the one noticing the color of the clouds, the smell of the wet leaves in the forest, the chirps of the Robins. I am glad he has been able to experience the present moment. I am sad it took him so long to do so.
Françoise asks her son Frederick to go look for her Jeep, which has been parked on the street for five days already. He comes back with bad news; the Jeep is gone, stolen. Françoise's response was typical of her non-attachment to the material things. She felt it was one less thing to be bothered with and was relieved. Just the night before, she and Claude had talked about how selling the Jeep for a smaller car was going to be more practical for her. Now she didn't have to sell the Jeep. The Great Architect had taken care of all that.
Later that day, during a lull, I take my pen and start scribbling notes in my notebook, when, out of nowhere, I hear a melody and words of a song. I write it down. It is my first song and it is dedicated to Claude.
LAST CONVERSATIONS
Friday, November 26
He almost doesn't talk anymore, just some short conversations here and there. I would like to go walk in the woods one more time, he tells Linda. You miss the forest? she asks. He nods and his eyes fill up. I need a gun, he says to Linda. You mean, you need a gun to make a whole in your stomach and get rid of all of these painful gases? I need a gun for that and more, he answers, with a look that had much to tell.
Too soon, too late, were among his last words. Too soon to die, too late to conquer the illness.
HIS LAST WORDS
Sunday, November 30
When he woke up this morning, death was lingering next to his right shoulder, waiting for its entry in the script of Claude's life. My father's eyes were farther than ever, mildly glossy, gone but yet still there. What time is it? He asks. Noon. I will be leaving at 2. Then revised himself and added, At around 2. He then fell deep asleep never to wake up again.
THE COMA
Monday, December 1
I am in his room. The oxygen is hissing. His breathing is shallow but steady. I am alone. I talked with him before. Told him that he had been a great dad, although our relationship was far from perfect. Told him all the things that I learned through him. That if you do something, try to do it right, do your best at all times. This taught me to seek quality in things and in people. Told him how he had inspired me all my life to seek to fulfill my deepest dreams. To have dreams was important, but to fulfill one's dreams was even more so. He taught me how to trust my destiny, that things happen when they happen and that we have to surrender to those. Told him about the letter I sent him in September, when he didn't know he had cancer. Such a bad timing, I thought, to send him a missive about our unfinished businesses. On the other hand, would I have known about his illness, I would have never sent it. I am happy that he has received that letter but wonder how it would have been differently without it also.
I am sitting here writing all this on Linda's laptop. How strange. His body is letting go of life by the minute and I am here writing about it. His feet are now cold, his legs, mildly blue. Everyone is ready to see him go now. Even Françoise is ready. She has packed the whole room this afternoon. Everything. The gray bags are sitting next to the door, waiting to be taken back home. It has been seven weeks since they were first unpacked. It has been a long journey. The wait is long but necessary. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. Of course my life is calling, all those responsibilities are waiting for me. I came to be relatively at peace with myself: I am not indispensable. The world can continue without me.
The electric razor we had just bought him is useless now. Bernard, my brother who always wore a beard until recently, is now the new owner. He warmly takes the razor in his hands, turns it around and sees our father through it. He looks up at me and looks down back at the razor. A mild discomfort passes through his body, as in, will I be able to actually use it?
THE MORNING OF HIS DEATH
Tuesday, December 2
I walk into the room only to find him still breathing and alive. I stare at him, somewhat discouraged as to how long he's been hanging on. I look at Françoise who starts to giggle and I join too. Better laugh than cry, I comment. My father is an athlete: skied, played tennis, racquetball, hiked, all his life. His body is programmed to live, fight, survive. He is not going to let go like that.
Everyone believes that he will choose to leave his body and this world when he feels his lover is ready. He has been waiting for days already, but he his patient, for his love for her is greater and more passionate than anyone has ever seen him experience before. Until he fell into a coma, his gaze into her eyes was deep and meaningful for the love they have for each other has no bounds. The passion and intimacy they share are almost painful to watch because it is ending.
I can't help but to tell Françoise that she has to start getting out of his room. It had been at least three weeks since she has last ventured out of the hospital and only for few seldom hours when done so before that. But I am so comfortable here! is her reply to my request. This is part of the problem, I answer. But I have promised to stay by his side no matter what! is the defense. It has been almost two months since they first ventured through these doors, creating a new love nest, sheltered from the outside world. Well, let's ask him for a clear sign that he grants you permission to move on with your life. I get a blank look. Claude has not flinched out of his coma for two days already. I talk loud enough for him to hear me. I know he can hear me. I have sung to him the day before the song that I wrote for him and his breathing changed. Every time someone talks to him, his response is a more rapid short inhale, followed by a similar exhale. I know he understands what is going on around him. I add that if he wants her to resume her life, let's ask him to give a clear sign today that he approves fully of it. Another blank look followed by a shy, incredulous nod.
The hospital is nested on the slope of the Mont-Royal Mountain. From the window, we can see some people cross-country skiing or horseback riding. All morning Rich is looking at a small field, observing the type of snow, examining its texture for a cross-country ski ride he is planning for the next day.
From the time Claude was asked to give a clear sign to Françoise, two hours has gone by. It has been a long wait. It has been a long week. It has been a long seven weeks. Françoise is alone in the room now. She sits by his bedside and lovingly talks to him. She reviews all the promises they have talked about during the previous days. She tells him how much she loves him and how soon he will be set to explore a new freedom. It is Tuesday, December 2, 1 PM, she tells him. His breathing starts to change, his fingers and hands are slowly turning blue. This is it! He is leaving!
Everyone waiting in the other room is called to come passively support him in his departure. I reach Bernard on his cellular phone. He is moving out of the apartment he has been living in for over a decade and starting a new life, apart from his partner of 17 years. He is taking his last breaths, I tell him. Claude indeed is taking is very last breaths, very softly, slowly, effortlessly. As life leaves his body, so do the colors. His skin is very slowly turning gray. As we cry, we continue talking to him, wishing him a wonderful journey, a new life, a new beginning. Through her tears, Françoise kisses him and tells him I love you, I love you, my love, have a great journey, I love you, my love, I love you, I miss you already, I love you, my love, I love you.
I sing him my song and wish him a good journey.
CHANSON POUR CLAUDE / SONG FOR CLAUDE
pendant le cours de ta vie / during the course of your life
tu nous as tous légué / you have passed on to us
une belle passion de vivre / a beautiful passion for life
ta belle passion de vivre / your beautiful passion for life
pendant le cours de ta mort / during the course of your death
tu as semé en nous / you have strewn in us
lumière, beauté et espoir / light, beauty and hope
un beau cadeau d'amour / a beautiful gift of love
tu as vécu ta vie /you have lived your life
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta vie / you will have lived your life
tu as vécu ta mort / you have lived your death
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta mort / you will have lived your death
merci Claude, merci / thank you Claude, thank you
d'être parti ainsi / to have left as such
d'être venu vivre ta vie / to have come to live your life
I call Bernard again and tell him that Claude has just died. There is a silence. The movers have just rung the doorbell goddammit, I hear him mutter. We'll talk later, he tells me, as he exhales his cigarette puff.
Rich, looking out the window, turns to me, white as a sheet. Come and see this! My jaw drops. In the snowfield are now inscribed, by someone's footsteps, twenty feet long letters that spell FREEDOM. This wasn't there 20 minutes ago.
AFTER HIS DEATH
Tuesday, Dec. 2
I call Ilan to see how he is doing. It has been a week since I last saw him. How was school today? Good. Is Pappy dead? Do you want to know the truth? Yes. He passed away few hours ago. Silence. When are you coming back? In few days. It has been a long time, I miss you. I miss you too, Ilan. Do you know where Pappy went? Yes, he went somewhere called Heaven, all the way at the other end of the Universe.
As I wander around in his apartment during the reception, I notice his motorcycle helmets in the closet. His favorite, for long journeys, has "Je t'aime" scribbled with a silver marker on the back so that Françoise is reminded of his love for her as they ride together. His clothing, permeated with his smell and memories of warmth, will never be worn by him again and just hang, waiting for another destiny.
I glance at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. His tight handwriting is everywhere, a reminder of his habit of putting all kinds of events on it for the record. First motorcycle ride, April 4. Myriam's visit with kids, May 28. Their five week long motorcycle trip's destinations are scattered throughout July and August. His last inscription is October 18, just days before his hospital departure. The rest of the month and of the year is blank.
Françoise makes us listen the last message he has left for her on the answering machine, telling her how much he loves her, misses her, how much time passes too slowly without her. Hearing his voice makes me fall deep in to the sorrow of my loss, of my grief for the father I once had and that is gone, forever.
Just before he died, Claude promised Françoise that he would give her a clear sign of his presence next to her after his death. The first night she is back in their apartment, she is woken up by the halogen lamp at the other end of the bedroom. It is shining its full 300 watts. After a few seconds of assessment and confusion, Françoise keeps watching. The light starts to dance, going down and up and up and down, fast and slow. After its ten-minute choreography, it stops. She wakes up her son Frederick to tell him about this most incredible thing that had just happened. He shakes his head, my mother is going nuts, he thinks. Then the light lit again and performed another dance, just as unique, unsettling and beautiful. Frederick did not go back to sleep that night, neither did Françoise, but for different reasons: he, out of sheer fear and amazement at the phenomenon; she, out of pleasure to know that he had shown her that he was there, right next to her.
THE AFTERMATH
The week after he died, after a two-year effort in filling up my day care, two families called, each with two sons, each looking for full-time openings. Filling up the day care for me is the equivalent of stepping out of a financial rut I was trapped in for over two years.
Five days after Claude passed away, Linda was ovulating and got pregnant of her first child.
Sometimes, as I ponder about all of these events, I wonder if they really happened, if they were real. I do not like the thought of the impermanence of all living things, here today, gone tomorrow, yet it is my lifeline.
ONE YEAR LATER: A LETTER TO CLAUDE
December 2, 1998
I am nostalgic. Reminiscences of my life with you, of moments spent together, sprout up unevenly. I have felt your absence this year. Even though we didn’t share much in the last few years, I miss our phone calls and sporadic dinners.
When you died, the mourning came in spurts. The weeks following your departure were empty of your presence yet filled with chagrin. Every time I laid down my eyes on something that reminded me of you, sadness filled my heart. Writing my experience of my last week spent with you was a catharsis. Again, thank you for having let me be part of this moment.
Every time I sing your song, I cry. The kids do not want to hear it anymore: they dubbed it “The Song That Makes Us Cry.” Naomi still talks about you. When our rabbit died at the end of the summer, she fell apart. She kept crying and saying, “Loosing Papy and Hopper the same year is too much to bear.” Standing strong and tall on her four and a half years of life, she understands pain better than others ten times her age.
You come into my dreams again, only once in a while. What is most striking is your smell. I can smell you when you come in my dreams: the sweetness of your cologne mixed with the salt of your sweat; it permeates my nostrils until I wake up. Only then do I realize how much I miss you, you and all of your imperfections, you with your temper, your last word. You come in my dreams and talk and I can hear your voice too. When I wake up, I remember your accent, from all the way up North, an accent I cannot duplicate.
We buried your ashes exactly five months after your departure. Linda, Bernard and I made our own little ritual and it felt like you had just passed away, again, the day before. We relived your death a second time around and it was not a party.
When you took your last breath, I saw the last breath of all of humanity: the unavoidable destiny of mankind. As an ineffable moment of stillness, this last breath makes us One. Wherever we come from, from any place on Earth, there will always be, at some point, a last breath. When you took yours, this is what I saw. This image that comes and goes is a reminder of my finiteness, of everyone's finiteness.
When I think of you, I am reminded of where I come from. When I see your last breath, I am reminded of where I am going, ultimately, whatever road I take. As I think about my own death, I appreciate life for what it has to offer, for all the little things, which it is made up of, and I am grateful. Thank you for having passed along such a gift.
This is the true story of my father's illness and death as I have experienced it during the fall of 1997. I have chosen this topic because I couldn't avoid writing about it. It is by far one of the most profound emotional and spiritual life-altering experiences that I have ever lived. I have also chosen not to censor some events and phenomenon who might appear strange or surreal, because they were real to the people who experienced them. I have inserted the events in a chronological order to facilitate the reader's comprehension of the unfolding of the occurrences.
As an interfaith minister, I am a believer that events have meaning and power. I also believe in the presence of a greater intelligence, be it God, Great Spirit, Great Architect, Higher Power of whichever label one prefers to use. I like to call it the Infinite Universe, where each molecule, atom and energy particle have a place to go at a given space and time. I address the hardships of my life as opportunities to deepen my learning experience while I live on this plane, on this planet, at this time. Consequently, I have viewed my father's illness and death as a learning process to both assess my relationship to him, in the present and the past, my relationship to my children, my ex-husband, to Rich, my partner, and to everything I chose to do or not to do.
I am dedicating this memoir to Claude, my father, who has welcomed me to assist him in one of the most important passages of his life.
THE NEWS TO HIM
Friday, October 3
Claude has recently decided to let his hair be the natural gray it had been for over thirty years. He has also taken on drinking cappuccino, which he vigilantly prepares every morning for himself and his partner of four years, Françoise. This morning, as he goes through his morning routine, he looks at the clock incessantly. When 9 AM comes, he has to call the hospital and get the results of the tests he has taken last Monday.
He gets his diagnosis: Carcinoma of the soft tissues, a very aggressive, malignant cancer. Today is his 64th birthday. With Françoise, they cry in each other's arms all day long. They had both retired and bought a house in the country to move into, just a week before. The news crumbles their dreams.
THE NEWS TO ME
Monday, October 13
I am hit by an avalanche. The weight covers every inch of my body. I am cold. The sudden silence is pounding in my ears. My breath is still. As I hang up the phone, my mind starts racing. I can't even hear myself think; a tornado has caught up with me.
I make my way to the kitchen where Rich is waiting for me. My father has cancer, I hear myself say. As his arms embrace my body, my heart melts away, surrenders to my tears. His words, I know how it feels, I've been there, echo softly and soothe my pain. His soft red beard brush against my cheek and comforts me.
The next day I call Mary, my mentor at the college. I am quitting. I can't stand the pressure, I can't do this, I explain to her. Family, work, school, getting divorced, and now with my father's illness, it is too much for me right now, I tell her. There is a short silence, the one where thoughts are weighed because as words they will have an impact. You can't, she answers. You can't quit, you can't quit now. Remember that there will be
the before, the during and the after, and nobody knows how long any of these will last. You will have to learn to deal with it and move on with your life, through it all. I hang up. She is right, but the plain truth is hard to accept.
A DIFFICULT FALL
October - November
The alarm goes off. The moon is still out, a small but distinct crescent on the horizon, just below the Orion Belt. As I step out of bed, the chill of the morning slowly wakes me up. I turn on the stove and make myself a cup of Wild Berry Zinger tea. I sit at my desk and ponder, again, about the night that just went by and the dreams that accompanied it. I shake my head and begin to work. There's nothing like Statistical Inference to start the day at 5 AM.
At 6:30, I wake up Ilan. His sleepy face surrounded by his tousled hair tells me he would rather stay in bed. Daily routine obliges, so he gets up, puts on his favorite jeans (the ones with both knees torn out), eats his Cheerios with vanilla soymilk and practices violin. As he heads down the driveway to catch the school bus, Leah, the first day care child arrives and plays with Naomi, who just came down the stairs.
At 9, Cathy arrives to relieve me from the day care duties. The seven children run around with glee. Unlike me, they have had a full night of sleep. I retire to my office to continue some Statistics. I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tune out the kids' squeals and concentrate on today's homework. I am distracted. Images of my dreams haunt me.
At lunchtime, I take a leave from my haven to prepare the meal for everybody. Food has no appeal to me these days. I eat because I need the fuel, but taste nothing. Cathy has been noticing the half helpings I serve myself and tries, to no avail, to motivate me in getting seconds.
It is 1 PM, Cathy has just left and the children are down for naptime. I inhale the silence that permeates the house. More homework interrupted by memories of my dreams, which I've had recurring all week. I dream of my father, shriveling in his hospital bed, aging so fast, death crawling under his skin, his bald white head pulsating with blue veins, his eyes, dark and deep. And then I wake up, and stay up for hours as I reflect on Claude's illness, on what it means for me to lose my father as I divorce his carbon copy: two men that I have rejected lately because of the abuse I have decided not to bear anymore by either one. I also ponder on life's futility, on Zen and the art of living and dying and of how to slow down the train of my life so I can catch my breath and assimilate all of what this means yet I can't slow down because I can't.
As the afternoon comes to an end, I wake the kids up, serve snack, and welcome Ilan back from school. As the parents pick-up their child one by one, some notice my weary eyes and offer words of support.
At dinner, as we sit around the table, I feel fortunate to have these three wonderful beings sharing my daily life. They are so buoyant, loving, beaming. I thank God to grant me this day and ability to appreciate Rich, for his generosity, love and outstanding support; Naomi, for her genuine affection and tender heart and Ilan, for his sensitivity and presence.
As I hand out bath toys to Ilan and Naomi, my body screams for a respite. It has been a long day. When I cuddle Naomi to sleep, I almost fall asleep myself. I sluggishly step out of the children's room, go downstairs to start a load of laundry. As Rich practices guitar in the living room, I try to get a hold of Linda, my sister, who lives in San Francisco, with whom I have daily contacts. Either she or I call the hospital every day to gather some news and then we share the news to the other.
From the start I have had this ominous feeling that Claude would not make it. Yet Linda is hopeful, although signs of fast deterioration are obvious. Bernard, the oldest of the family, is the only one who lives in Montreal and gets a chance to visit him as he wishes. He sees the decrepitude. He says I won't recognize him, especially since his hair fell out because of chemotherapy. But I tell him, I see him in my dreams, I visit him every night.
My body slouched on the sofa, I listen to one of Bach's suite for guitar played by Rich. The minutes, the seconds are still. The time warp of the day comes to a halt. My eyelids are heavy, so I go run a bath. The bubbles feel soft; the honeysuckle smell tickles my nostrils. The candlelight dances on the wall. As the cells of my body soak in the heat, my mind races, as I try to sort through the labyrinths of my life.
The covers up to my chin, the sweet smell of the snow comes in from the open windows. I snuggle up on Rich's shoulder and fall fast asleep. Maman! Maman! Naomi calls for me. I wake up from a very vivid dream and walk to her room to see what it is going to be tonight. The covers are off and she is cold. I am hopeful that tonight I might be able to sleep better than the night before, where she woke up every hour altering between her fears of monsters and cramps in her legs. As I slip back under the sheets, trying not to wake up Rich, I look at the clock: 2:43 AM. Good, maybe I can sleep another two hour before my alarm goes off.
The images of my dream keep turning in my head on replay mode. In this dream, I arrive very late at my friend's Eliane's house for lodging and am told by my sleepy host to use the guest room, at the end of the hallway, on the right. As I enter the bedroom, there is my father, sitting at the desk, his back to me. As I approach, he turns to greet me and he is himself, only what he used to look like three months ago. He gentlemanly offers me the chair and sits on the bed, facing me. As I start talking to him, I am rather distressed because I know that it is only an illusion, an image of what he used to be. I begin telling him about my discomfort. I begin sharing with him that I think his difficulty to welcome us now that he is on his death bed is related to the fact that he doesn't want to be seen like this. I have over thirty years of memories to cherish and want to be with you during this difficult transition time. As my voice echoes in the stillness of the night, his body starts to shrivel down until the state that he is now, a bald cadaver, waiting for its last breath.
As the seconds and the minutes and the hours go by, I am completely absorbed by the images of my dream and how they ring so true. He does not want to be seen like this, completely vulnerable, helpless.
TALK WITH THE DOCTOR
Thursday, November 20
Dr. Hings and I have had one phone conversation at the beginning of the month, when I asked her to give me honest answers about my father's diagnosis, treatment and prognostic. This time I am calling her because Claude has been going downhill really fast in the last week and I am beginning to think that the end is sooner than anticipated.
Yes, she says, I thought it would be a matter of months before your father dies, but now I am more certain that it will be within few weeks. Have you mentioned this to Claude? Not yet, because until now there was still hope that the treatments would slow down the cancer, but because of his pneumonia, we weren't able to do anything. As anyone talked to him about death? No. I am worried that my father will die wrapped up in his fear of death. Mortality has been a taboo subject for my father for as long as I can remember and I feel it is needed to be addressed at this time. The next day, Dr. Hings talks with Claude about his imminent death. As Claude listens, tears run down his cheeks.
DEATH AS SALVATION
Sunday, November 24
Just after dinner, as Dr. Hings does her last round, she tells Claude that it will be a matter of days before he dies. The reality is harsh but he chooses to open his arms. I want to see everyone I know and say my final Good Bye, he answers, to everyone's astonishment.
For the next two days, a train of people pass and receive a message, come out teary knowing that they will never see him again. I am dying, he would say, looking deep into their eyes. It is time for me to leave and go meet my mother.
My father had lost his mother of tuberculosis when he was four years old. He always felt her presence and throughout his life, held firmly to her picture in his wallet. He was sent to an orphanage in La Malbaie, overlooking the St.-Lawrence River and hated it. He was given a boiled onion to eat at every meal, to strengthen the immune system, the Brothers would say. Until this day, he resented eating onions and would tell us of orphanage stories as soon as a bite of onion would mistakenly end up in his plate.
My mother, Thérèse, Claude's wife of 40 years, got to meet Françoise for the first time. The exchange was cordial, but tense, as they both were saying their farewell to the man they both passionately loved, one in the past, the other in the present.
COME NOW
Tuesday, November 25
It is 2 PM. I receive a call. Linda who flew to Montreal from San Francisco that morning tells me that I should come fast because he is not doing well at all. I had planned to leave the next morning, because I had to organize and prepare the day care for the days I was going to be absent, but the adrenaline kicked in and was through getting everything ready by 6. Rich cared for my children that evening and opened the daycare the next morning until my assistant showed up. He did so, very generously. I feel overwhelmed by the pace of the events. I am so grateful to have Rich in my life, who genuinely offers unconditional support: a lesson for me who needs to learn how to receive.
On the way up north, I beat my own record in driving time from New Paltz to Montreal. I am trapped in my fear of arriving too late and wish to be there already. I get to the hospital and jump into Françoise's arms who collapse. I'm so glad you made it on time; I was so afraid that you would not see him before he died. Everything has been going so fast, so fast, she says, weepy.
We spent a couple of hours talking about anything and everything, got to know the woman with whom my father had decided to spent the last years of his life. He had kept his relationship completely private. He didn't want to let anyone between the two of them.
HUMOR, INSIGHTFULNESS AND ANGELS
Wednesday, November 26
From his hospital room on the 17th floor, the cars below look like toys. The town, the air, the rooftops, all is white with snow. The busy-ness of the city is hustling.
Claude wakes up. After a few moments, he gathers his senses, looks my way, his gaze into mine. Myriam, you have arrived, he softly says, with a smile. I hug him and rub his bare head.
We talk. I share with him childhood memories. I tell him that every time I grab sandpaper, contact glue, a Phillips screwdriver or the circular saw, I see images of him, I hear his voice. I tell him that now, when I do work around the house, Ilan is my helper. He smiles.
He doesn't want to eat anymore; only a bite here and there to soothe the stomach, but no more. He soon falls asleep for his morning nap and I sit next to his bed. His right shoulder is nested in my hand, like a small orange. His other shoulder, with the cantaloupe-size tumor, is pulsating with blue veins. My hand holds his small, muscleless hand. The cancer-ridden arm and hand are swollen, the tumor restricting the circulation.
After his nap he requests that the visits be limited to his children and Françoise, only. He wants us in the room. I am ready to leave, he tells us, make a circle around the bed and hold hands. We close our eyes. A cylinder of light descends over the bed. Northern lights-like beams dance within the cylinder. Claude's invisible double is standing, ready to go. Claude's physical body wakes up and says, I have to get up, I have to stand, I have to go now! Claude, you are paralyzed, you cannot get up, Linda answers. It is so beautiful, it is so beautiful, I cannot believe I am back, he mutters.
After a short coffee break for all, we gather back and sit down again, he has a message for each one of us and for his grandchildren. He tells Françoise to live her life, to live it now, to continue and move on. Remember Françoise that you get to choose, he says, with a smirk. We look at each other, this is an inside story between Claude and Françoise that is drawn forth as we learn that when they met, another man was courting her and she chose Claude.
When Linda's turn comes up, she says, We do not have a grandchild for you to give a message, but as you know, we have been trying hard to conceive a child for the past two years. When you go to the other side, can you look around and see if there is a little cherub ready to come down? I will make it my utmost priority, he answers, looking deep into her eyes, but you will first have to give me a few days.
There isn't one pair of eyes that is dry in the room. He asks us not to cry, not to be sad. But we are moved by what you have told each one of us, can we be inspired by your strength and courage and beauty? I ask, teary. Yes, in this case, it is okay then... but you know, I have some flaws that I have tried to hide from all, throughout my life, but they are there, you know, and... I interrupt, Are you trying to tell us that you are not perfect? Everyone laughs. My father has always tried to pretend that he was above it all, in all circumstances, and now he surrenders to his humanity. I am moved by his lucidity, his egolessness. Where is the father that I have known, the rage-aholic, arrogant, self-sufficient, egocentric man?
We get quiet again and close our eyes. Two small angels are behind his back, pulling and tagging, trying to help him leave. Claude wakes up, my back hurts, he says. The two little angels stop, disheartened, look at each other and leave.
I am getting too much love from all of you now, I can't leave, he says. But the love was always there, Claude, only now, you are able to receive it, I say, as his eyes water up.
We are asked to leave, he wants to spend some quiet time with Françoise now.
IT'S QUIET TIME
Thursday, November 27
Françoise has been alone with Claude since the day before. Linda expresses her concerns that it isn't probably favorable to leave her alone like that for so long. Minutes later, Françoise shows up and tells us that Claude doesn't want her to be alone anymore. As his children, we take turns, one at a time, so as not to clutter the room.
At times Claude wakes up, whimpering because of the pain. He mutters, I cannot complain, I cannot complain, there are many worse than I, many. But you now belong to those Claude, you are among the worst. No, there are many more worse than I, those who are alone, suffering, those in Third World countries who are abandoned, political prisoners, who are tortured, they are all worse than me, he says. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I am completely absorbed by the words he just said, by the unsettling truth they carry.
At times he wakes up, his gaze filled with apprehension, what if I go to the wrong place? he asks. You are going to go to a beautiful place, you will meet your mother, Napoleon, Alice, Gigi (and party 'till midnight again), Roland (and tease him 'till eternity) and others you do not know, I answer.
Lunch arrives and Claude wants to taste some chocolate pudding. After his first spoonful, his eyes get wide and large and he says, gleefully, this is good! After many more, and many more of the same joy of tasting, he says, I have to stop eating this or I will never want to leave this place!
During his afternoon nap, I listen to his breathing, my hand rubbing his bare head. I comment to Françoise about my amazement as to how Claude has learned, through his relationship with her, to live the present moment and enjoy the little pleasures of life. She is surprise, for she has always known him that way. She adds that he, from the time they have met, has sent her love letters, notes, faxes, E-mail, every day, and that she has kept them all. Claude was the one noticing the color of the clouds, the smell of the wet leaves in the forest, the chirps of the Robins. I am glad he has been able to experience the present moment. I am sad it took him so long to do so.
Françoise asks her son Frederick to go look for her Jeep, which has been parked on the street for five days already. He comes back with bad news; the Jeep is gone, stolen. Françoise's response was typical of her non-attachment to the material things. She felt it was one less thing to be bothered with and was relieved. Just the night before, she and Claude had talked about how selling the Jeep for a smaller car was going to be more practical for her. Now she didn't have to sell the Jeep. The Great Architect had taken care of all that.
Later that day, during a lull, I take my pen and start scribbling notes in my notebook, when, out of nowhere, I hear a melody and words of a song. I write it down. It is my first song and it is dedicated to Claude.
LAST CONVERSATIONS
Friday, November 26
He almost doesn't talk anymore, just some short conversations here and there. I would like to go walk in the woods one more time, he tells Linda. You miss the forest? she asks. He nods and his eyes fill up. I need a gun, he says to Linda. You mean, you need a gun to make a whole in your stomach and get rid of all of these painful gases? I need a gun for that and more, he answers, with a look that had much to tell.
Too soon, too late, were among his last words. Too soon to die, too late to conquer the illness.
HIS LAST WORDS
Sunday, November 30
When he woke up this morning, death was lingering next to his right shoulder, waiting for its entry in the script of Claude's life. My father's eyes were farther than ever, mildly glossy, gone but yet still there. What time is it? He asks. Noon. I will be leaving at 2. Then revised himself and added, At around 2. He then fell deep asleep never to wake up again.
THE COMA
Monday, December 1
I am in his room. The oxygen is hissing. His breathing is shallow but steady. I am alone. I talked with him before. Told him that he had been a great dad, although our relationship was far from perfect. Told him all the things that I learned through him. That if you do something, try to do it right, do your best at all times. This taught me to seek quality in things and in people. Told him how he had inspired me all my life to seek to fulfill my deepest dreams. To have dreams was important, but to fulfill one's dreams was even more so. He taught me how to trust my destiny, that things happen when they happen and that we have to surrender to those. Told him about the letter I sent him in September, when he didn't know he had cancer. Such a bad timing, I thought, to send him a missive about our unfinished businesses. On the other hand, would I have known about his illness, I would have never sent it. I am happy that he has received that letter but wonder how it would have been differently without it also.
I am sitting here writing all this on Linda's laptop. How strange. His body is letting go of life by the minute and I am here writing about it. His feet are now cold, his legs, mildly blue. Everyone is ready to see him go now. Even Françoise is ready. She has packed the whole room this afternoon. Everything. The gray bags are sitting next to the door, waiting to be taken back home. It has been seven weeks since they were first unpacked. It has been a long journey. The wait is long but necessary. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. Of course my life is calling, all those responsibilities are waiting for me. I came to be relatively at peace with myself: I am not indispensable. The world can continue without me.
The electric razor we had just bought him is useless now. Bernard, my brother who always wore a beard until recently, is now the new owner. He warmly takes the razor in his hands, turns it around and sees our father through it. He looks up at me and looks down back at the razor. A mild discomfort passes through his body, as in, will I be able to actually use it?
THE MORNING OF HIS DEATH
Tuesday, December 2
I walk into the room only to find him still breathing and alive. I stare at him, somewhat discouraged as to how long he's been hanging on. I look at Françoise who starts to giggle and I join too. Better laugh than cry, I comment. My father is an athlete: skied, played tennis, racquetball, hiked, all his life. His body is programmed to live, fight, survive. He is not going to let go like that.
Everyone believes that he will choose to leave his body and this world when he feels his lover is ready. He has been waiting for days already, but he his patient, for his love for her is greater and more passionate than anyone has ever seen him experience before. Until he fell into a coma, his gaze into her eyes was deep and meaningful for the love they have for each other has no bounds. The passion and intimacy they share are almost painful to watch because it is ending.
I can't help but to tell Françoise that she has to start getting out of his room. It had been at least three weeks since she has last ventured out of the hospital and only for few seldom hours when done so before that. But I am so comfortable here! is her reply to my request. This is part of the problem, I answer. But I have promised to stay by his side no matter what! is the defense. It has been almost two months since they first ventured through these doors, creating a new love nest, sheltered from the outside world. Well, let's ask him for a clear sign that he grants you permission to move on with your life. I get a blank look. Claude has not flinched out of his coma for two days already. I talk loud enough for him to hear me. I know he can hear me. I have sung to him the day before the song that I wrote for him and his breathing changed. Every time someone talks to him, his response is a more rapid short inhale, followed by a similar exhale. I know he understands what is going on around him. I add that if he wants her to resume her life, let's ask him to give a clear sign today that he approves fully of it. Another blank look followed by a shy, incredulous nod.
The hospital is nested on the slope of the Mont-Royal Mountain. From the window, we can see some people cross-country skiing or horseback riding. All morning Rich is looking at a small field, observing the type of snow, examining its texture for a cross-country ski ride he is planning for the next day.
From the time Claude was asked to give a clear sign to Françoise, two hours has gone by. It has been a long wait. It has been a long week. It has been a long seven weeks. Françoise is alone in the room now. She sits by his bedside and lovingly talks to him. She reviews all the promises they have talked about during the previous days. She tells him how much she loves him and how soon he will be set to explore a new freedom. It is Tuesday, December 2, 1 PM, she tells him. His breathing starts to change, his fingers and hands are slowly turning blue. This is it! He is leaving!
Everyone waiting in the other room is called to come passively support him in his departure. I reach Bernard on his cellular phone. He is moving out of the apartment he has been living in for over a decade and starting a new life, apart from his partner of 17 years. He is taking his last breaths, I tell him. Claude indeed is taking is very last breaths, very softly, slowly, effortlessly. As life leaves his body, so do the colors. His skin is very slowly turning gray. As we cry, we continue talking to him, wishing him a wonderful journey, a new life, a new beginning. Through her tears, Françoise kisses him and tells him I love you, I love you, my love, have a great journey, I love you, my love, I love you, I miss you already, I love you, my love, I love you.
I sing him my song and wish him a good journey.
CHANSON POUR CLAUDE / SONG FOR CLAUDE
pendant le cours de ta vie / during the course of your life
tu nous as tous légué / you have passed on to us
une belle passion de vivre / a beautiful passion for life
ta belle passion de vivre / your beautiful passion for life
pendant le cours de ta mort / during the course of your death
tu as semé en nous / you have strewn in us
lumière, beauté et espoir / light, beauty and hope
un beau cadeau d'amour / a beautiful gift of love
tu as vécu ta vie /you have lived your life
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta vie / you will have lived your life
tu as vécu ta mort / you have lived your death
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta mort / you will have lived your death
merci Claude, merci / thank you Claude, thank you
d'être parti ainsi / to have left as such
d'être venu vivre ta vie / to have come to live your life
I call Bernard again and tell him that Claude has just died. There is a silence. The movers have just rung the doorbell goddammit, I hear him mutter. We'll talk later, he tells me, as he exhales his cigarette puff.
Rich, looking out the window, turns to me, white as a sheet. Come and see this! My jaw drops. In the snowfield are now inscribed, by someone's footsteps, twenty feet long letters that spell FREEDOM. This wasn't there 20 minutes ago.
AFTER HIS DEATH
Tuesday, Dec. 2
I call Ilan to see how he is doing. It has been a week since I last saw him. How was school today? Good. Is Pappy dead? Do you want to know the truth? Yes. He passed away few hours ago. Silence. When are you coming back? In few days. It has been a long time, I miss you. I miss you too, Ilan. Do you know where Pappy went? Yes, he went somewhere called Heaven, all the way at the other end of the Universe.
As I wander around in his apartment during the reception, I notice his motorcycle helmets in the closet. His favorite, for long journeys, has "Je t'aime" scribbled with a silver marker on the back so that Françoise is reminded of his love for her as they ride together. His clothing, permeated with his smell and memories of warmth, will never be worn by him again and just hang, waiting for another destiny.
I glance at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. His tight handwriting is everywhere, a reminder of his habit of putting all kinds of events on it for the record. First motorcycle ride, April 4. Myriam's visit with kids, May 28. Their five week long motorcycle trip's destinations are scattered throughout July and August. His last inscription is October 18, just days before his hospital departure. The rest of the month and of the year is blank.
Françoise makes us listen the last message he has left for her on the answering machine, telling her how much he loves her, misses her, how much time passes too slowly without her. Hearing his voice makes me fall deep in to the sorrow of my loss, of my grief for the father I once had and that is gone, forever.
Just before he died, Claude promised Françoise that he would give her a clear sign of his presence next to her after his death. The first night she is back in their apartment, she is woken up by the halogen lamp at the other end of the bedroom. It is shining its full 300 watts. After a few seconds of assessment and confusion, Françoise keeps watching. The light starts to dance, going down and up and up and down, fast and slow. After its ten-minute choreography, it stops. She wakes up her son Frederick to tell him about this most incredible thing that had just happened. He shakes his head, my mother is going nuts, he thinks. Then the light lit again and performed another dance, just as unique, unsettling and beautiful. Frederick did not go back to sleep that night, neither did Françoise, but for different reasons: he, out of sheer fear and amazement at the phenomenon; she, out of pleasure to know that he had shown her that he was there, right next to her.
THE AFTERMATH
The week after he died, after a two-year effort in filling up my day care, two families called, each with two sons, each looking for full-time openings. Filling up the day care for me is the equivalent of stepping out of a financial rut I was trapped in for over two years.
Five days after Claude passed away, Linda was ovulating and got pregnant of her first child.
Sometimes, as I ponder about all of these events, I wonder if they really happened, if they were real. I do not like the thought of the impermanence of all living things, here today, gone tomorrow, yet it is my lifeline.
ONE YEAR LATER: A LETTER TO CLAUDE
December 2, 1998
I am nostalgic. Reminiscences of my life with you, of moments spent together, sprout up unevenly. I have felt your absence this year. Even though we didn’t share much in the last few years, I miss our phone calls and sporadic dinners.
When you died, the mourning came in spurts. The weeks following your departure were empty of your presence yet filled with chagrin. Every time I laid down my eyes on something that reminded me of you, sadness filled my heart. Writing my experience of my last week spent with you was a catharsis. Again, thank you for having let me be part of this moment.
Every time I sing your song, I cry. The kids do not want to hear it anymore: they dubbed it “The Song That Makes Us Cry.” Naomi still talks about you. When our rabbit died at the end of the summer, she fell apart. She kept crying and saying, “Loosing Papy and Hopper the same year is too much to bear.” Standing strong and tall on her four and a half years of life, she understands pain better than others ten times her age.
You come into my dreams again, only once in a while. What is most striking is your smell. I can smell you when you come in my dreams: the sweetness of your cologne mixed with the salt of your sweat; it permeates my nostrils until I wake up. Only then do I realize how much I miss you, you and all of your imperfections, you with your temper, your last word. You come in my dreams and talk and I can hear your voice too. When I wake up, I remember your accent, from all the way up North, an accent I cannot duplicate.
We buried your ashes exactly five months after your departure. Linda, Bernard and I made our own little ritual and it felt like you had just passed away, again, the day before. We relived your death a second time around and it was not a party.
When you took your last breath, I saw the last breath of all of humanity: the unavoidable destiny of mankind. As an ineffable moment of stillness, this last breath makes us One. Wherever we come from, from any place on Earth, there will always be, at some point, a last breath. When you took yours, this is what I saw. This image that comes and goes is a reminder of my finiteness, of everyone's finiteness.
When I think of you, I am reminded of where I come from. When I see your last breath, I am reminded of where I am going, ultimately, whatever road I take. As I think about my own death, I appreciate life for what it has to offer, for all the little things, which it is made up of, and I am grateful. Thank you for having passed along such a gift.
posted by Myriam at 8:28 PM
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