Trigger Warning

More cold Bay of Quinte Geese, March 2023

Last August I found a box of old journals in the crawl space. The box has sat there ever since like a grumpy ghost annoyed that I was ignoring it.

I got around to looking at the journals this week.

The first of the volumes - there are 20 in all - is from 1976. I was 19. I kept a record of the month I spent in London, England with family friends. The last volume, just a daily calendar really, is from 1998. 

In the years between the first and last books, I met Bruce, graduated from undergrad, worked at a series of unsatisfying jobs (during which time my father died), attended and graduated from law school, articled at the Canadian Environmental Law Association, and then worked at a series of unsatisfying jobs. 

I'd like to share some of the notes I recorded around the time of dad's death.

It was July 1985. Bill had been battling cancer for about six months by then. It started in his kidney. After some astonishingly brutal treatments, the cancer had seemed to settle down. Dad had some good weeks. And then the cancer came back. The doctors found it in his liver and then everywhere.

It started like this:

On July 20, a Saturday, dad's friend Blackie Lidstone drove him up to the Martyr's Shrine in Midland in search of a literal hail Mary. It was a six hour trip there and back, but dad slept most of the time. Once home, he served drinks and then excused himself. We figured he wasn't feeling well and needed to go be sick.

After about a minute, he called my mother. I decided to listen in. I heard my mother say "Oh my God!" and guessed then that dad was vomiting blood. I told the people in the living room what was happening and said Dad needed to go to the hospital.

While mother ran up and down the hallway saying "Oh my God" every time she passed the bathroom door, I held Dad while he was being sick, and helped him wipe his face when he was done. I was completely calm, which surprised everyone.

Dad lost a lot of blood, more than they actually had for him in Trenton, so he and my mother travelled by ambulance to the National Defence Medical Centre in Ottawa. It was touch and go. We didn't know if he would survive the trip.

Bill had children in Los Angeles (Cathy), Comox (Carol), Trenton (Kim) and Toronto (me), all of whom had to figure out how to get to Ottawa in time to see him alive one last time. Kim got there first, and I wrote down some notes to prepare for the call I was going to have with her:

1) Is Dad alive?

If yes, we'll come to Ottawa. If no, what are the plans? Will you bring him back to Trenton? When? Should I go to Trenton?

2) Who's taking care of the dogs?

3) How's Mom?

4) How are you?

Dad's pain medication had made an ulcer bloom like a red, red rose in his stomach. At the hospital, the doctors talked about surgery to fix the ulcer, but the cancer had more immediate plans. Dad's liver was failing. His heart stopped just before six in the evening on August 2, 1985, almost two weeks to the day after he'd asked the Virgin for mercy.

Thanks for reading.

Karen