Five years

Photo montage for Dad's funeral & visitation

I was thinking of my Dad today; it is the fifth anniversary of his passing. It seems surreal that it is five years later and that it is snowing, and I'm here remembering. It is real/ yet not real-- for me he is always vibrantly alive, sparkling with his humour and intelligence, gentle love and support. And yet, he is definably gone as well; no physical hugs, no sharing of stories, passing along of books, awkwardly and accidentally pressing the wrong button on his electric chair while bending over for that good-bye hug.

It is the dichotomy of death; wherein you hang on with all of your will to that which you do not wish to lose, and at the same time there is the ultimate letting go. You cannot hold it strongly enough for it to stay, it can never be that way. The soul slips through your fingers and joins the ether; that great unknown beyond; whether to comfort, omnipotent awakening or the void. We don't know; no one has come back and said: yea or nae.

Gathering at the Royal Canadian Legion 618 Stittsville
ON for Norm Marsden's memorial.

I feel bittersweet this morning; an aching poignant squeeze in my heart. I miss him. But it is not the heart wrenching stab of excruciating loss of February 5th, 2009. It was so raw; a wound that would never heal; just bleeding out the wrenched scream of 'no---'.

There is that deep ache of the past wound; like the broken bone, healed that foretells of storms. Tears stand behind the eyes; to be loosed if (should it happen) a song randomly appears on the radio; whether 'Men of Harlech', or 'Singing the Spirit Home' or (and this did happen last year: 'I come from the land down under' while shopping for groceries)...

I miss him in a thousand tiny ways that seem insignificant, but they pile up like the grains of snow swirling, rising into an 8 foot drift on one side of the house and nothing on the other. Significant in that together they build the wavering remembered image of him, from all those tiny thoughts and feelings.

I find myself watching a movie and saying 'Dad would love this--I can hear him laughing right now!'. I am partway through a book and want to share a passage with him (as he would always share with us around the table). I am at a restaurant with Mom and our eyes meet, and we know Dad would love the food, or the atmosphere, or the server; using his 'universal language' of a big smile and dancing eyes to immediately cement a nascent friendship.

I miss him.

In ten years; my memories will be dimmer; the strongest ones will be of my childhood, swinging; hanging onto his thumbs as the enormous giant strength of my Dad lifted from the ground and made me laugh. My memories of him at his end will be dimmer; I will be hanging onto the warm, loving images I sort and sift; choosing the best and turning them like jewels in my mind.

But, Carl Hiaasen said things better... a character's eulogy that Mom chose to represent my Dad:

"He was a fighter, a real tiger, but he had a generous heart.
He was an idealist who believed in the innate decency and honesty of everyone he met.
He faced profound sadness in his life but he never let himself be defeated by it.
He never lost his sense of humour or his optimism.
He was one of the most positive and unselfish persons.
He chose a simple, ordinary life because he believed that was the secret to true happiness.
He wasn't perfect.
He had weaknesses as all of us do.
Impulsive moments, blind spots, and lapses in judgment.
He wasn't a perfect person but he was a truly good person and we'll all miss him dearly."

Though I'm old with wandering...

I have bits and pieces of poetry, music, images lodged in my head. They alternate between being comforting and being insistent with their presence. One is the "Dream of Wandering Aengus" by Yeats (inspired by very early Celtic stories) and made popular by Tommy Makem. Donovan also covered the poem in song form, and there is an interesting version of it on Youtube.

Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

— William Butler Yeats

This was one of my Dad's favourite songs/quotes. We printed it on the commemorative bookmarks that were at the service Sunday and Monday. On the other side was a great quote from Carl Hiassen that was a perfect description of my Dad. I have no idea how my Mom had the forethought to jot it down while she was reading, but she did and it was good. Reverend Jane, who lead the service on Monday read it and her voice broke. And of course I cried like Niagara Falls (again).


"He was a fighter, a real tiger, but he had a generous heart.
He was an idealist who believed in the innate decency and honesty of everyone he met.
He faced profound sadness in his life but he never let himself be defeated by it.
He never lost his sense of humour or his optimism.
He was one of the most positive and unselfish persons.
He chose a simple, ordinary life because he believed that was the secret to true happiness.
He wasn't perfect.
He had weaknesses as all of us do.
Impulsive moments, blind spots, and lapses in judgment.
He wasn't a perfect person but he was a truly good person and we'll all miss him dearly."

-- Carl Hiassen

It has been a strange week... I feel like an empty husk, with a low wind blowing through my mind. I move, write, create, but it is like being an automaton with no independent thought or motive. The strangest thing was grocery shopping. If Clay hadn't been there, I probably would've ended up lodged at the end of an aisle with my cart ground against a row of soup or something. It was like being in a dream. I talked with my Mom Wednesday and she said Mike had felt the same way.

I get up, make coffee, put clothes on. I gaze at the lovely flowers that our friends sent and let my mind drift into daisies, roses and palm fronds. Occasionally I will go along and forget. Then forcibly, I'll be stopped mid-thought: Dad would really like this book--- Realizing that I'll never share another book with him. Or looking yesterday for images from "Slaine the Horned God" by Mills & Bisley to get a picture, and coming up in a shortened chest-tight gasp. Dad and I loved that book, and nobody else really got it within my circle but us. Other things like that cascade in my mind--small things, significant only to me. But it hurts to my bones, and it is something that can't be brushed aside or crawled over. It has to be examined, cherished, then moved through respectfully, in its own time.

--Suz.

Joy and Sorrow

A long while ago, one of my dear friends, Fiona was traveling on the West Coast. I missed her lots and so, when this card arrived in the mail, I was blown away. It is from Khalil Gibran and it really meant a lot to me. It came from someone I loved, and it also came at a time when I was mourning the loss of my grandmother. The lines make sense to me, because they speak about balance.

Today was a day of balance as well. I woke up with my face pressed so hard into my pillow I'm amazed I wasn't suffocated. It was like I was trying to physically hang on to sleep for as long as I could. As long as I was in bed, asleep, the day (for me at least) couldn't progress. I wouldn't wake to another day of the reality of my father being gone staring me in the face. Inevitably I had to get up, but it was with a deep reluctance, and slowness; the way a kid will fight all the way against something, dragging their feet, even though there is no point and they will go to bed whether they want to or not.

Clay and I gathered some lunch items, some blank CD's, the old Rideau High School year book that Myra had lent me ages ago, and headed for Keith's place. Keith had agreed to try and transfer some old compilation mixed tapes I had made for my Dad for his birthday (June 3rd, 1990 and 2000). We stopped at Mac's first in Kanata and I topped up my phone (the day I needed it the most, not only were its batteries kacking out, it had like $1.50 left on it. Sigh!) I also picked up a couple of copies of the Citizen that had Dad's Obituary printed in it. Do you know what they ding you for an obit? Like $500! Geez! So, I am happy that they did a good job on it...

We drove up and along Eagleson, and I thought I could use some music. Just as we began merging on the 417, I clicked on CKCU (93.1) and Stan Rogers was singing "The Mary Ellen Carter". My God! I choked right up and sniffled and snurged as I drove. I was ok until the chorus, whereupon I just started sobbing again. Thankfully, the traffic had slowed a bit, so I could cry and kind've drive at the same time... After the song was done, the announcer said it had been a memorial set for someone else, which made it feel again, like it was destined to be heard by me.

"...And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.

Rise again, rise again - though your heart it be broken
And life about to end
No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend.
Like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again."
--Stan Rogers (1949 - 1983)

For a beautiful piece on YouTube, click here.

By the time I found my parking spot in front of Keith's place on Kent St., I was ok, but still deeply moved by the song, and my spirit somehow felt lighter. It was like, there was a lift that had happened inside and I could see a bit of light and laughter as well.

Keith got started on the tape transfer (btw, I had no idea that something like that could take close to 8-9 hours, depending on how things went. Clay and I had lunch and Keith put on Steve Martin's "the Jerk", which I had never seen. It was wonderful, just being able to laugh together and feel some of my tension release. Keith continued his work, transfering the poor old audio tapes to digital, and checking in on us to make sure we were ok. I sent more notices via email, and also linked Dad's Obituary to my facebook page.

We settled in for a second movie, this one an old favourite of mine when I was a teen, and also I remember Dad getting a good laugh out of it as well: "Amazon Women on the Moon". I think I giggled pretty much through the whole thing. And of course, during some of the more rib-splitting scenes, laughed so hard I started coughing and sounded like I was coming apart.

Fi and Vicki arrived later with a veggie lasagna, timbits and a bottle of Baileys! We just hugged and it felt so good to see them. Fi had been in the car all day coming up from Newmarket, then barely got out to hop into another car to come in to town. It was so good having them there, just talking, reminiscing and laughing.

Eventually we broke it up, after supper. Keith finally finished his audio magic and I had 4 CD's with Dad's music on them for the visitation tomorrow. Fi and Vick headed back for the 1 1/2 hr drive to Portland, and after lots of hugs and heartfelt "thankyous", Clay and I also headed out. We set course for Stittsville though, not Kanata.

Mom and I still had to put together the giant photosheet for the funeral home's frame that they put up in the visitation room for people to look at. We'd gone through a lot of pictures the other day and Mom had gone through a few more, but wanted me to help with the layout. It didn't take too long.. I sorted them in chronological order and then tried to see how they would all fit together. I put in the pic from Myra's yearbook and it looked good. There were pics from Dad as a little boy in 1947, to his army days, his trip to England and Trinity College in Dublin, as well as showing him relaxing on Sanibel Island in Florida. A real collage, showing his life, serious, smiling, looking mischievious, bending over the Lada (which needed eternal repairs) and finally, a picture in the lower right corner of Dad's granddaughters: Bronwyn, Kiara and Rylen.

It looks good.
Night, rest and may sweet sleep bear you to gentle dreamings.
Suzanne.

Norm

As most of you know, Norm passed away yesterday afternoon at the Queensway Carleton Hospital because of complications related to diabetes.

I would like to thank everyone for their love, support, thoughtful words and generous hearts during this incredibly difficult time. It means so much to us that you are thinking of us and that we are supported by those who love us and loved Norm.

If you are in the Ottawa area and would like to come to either the visitation or funeral (or both), here is the information:

Kelly Funeral Homes
580 Eagleson Rd., Kanata, ON K2M 1H4
613-591-6580

Visitation
Sunday February 8th, 2pm - 4pm
7pm - 9pm
1:30pm Legion Service
6:30pm Masonic Service

Funeral
Monday February 9th, 2pm

Norm's obituary will be published tomorrow in the Ottawa Citizen. In memoriam donations to the Canadian Diabetes Association or St. Thomas Anglican Church, Stittsville.

Man of Harlech

My Dad has been ill for a long time; dealing with diabetes, kidney disease, as well as stress on his heart and lungs (C.O.P.D.). So, when Mom called me this morning at work, I could tell from the sound of her voice that something was seriously wrong: it quavered and broke as she told me that Dad had been admitted to hospital last night, when he was having trouble breathing, and that I should come right away.

I gave a garbled message to one of my co-workers, pulled on my coat and went as quickly as I could back down the elevator, through the JT lobby and out into the -31 C weather that's been plaguing us. My lungs choked up with the cold and I could hear what my brother calls "lung kittens" wheezing in my chest. I got to my car and hit the parkway. The day was so bright and beautiful, sunny, but bloody cold. I was out of it, dazed. The car seemed to drive itself.

I pulled into the Queensway Carleton Hospital and eventually found a spot to park, which meant another long, freezing walk across a parking lot. I kept wanting to be at my Mom and Dad's side now, but things kept conspiring to get in my way. I found myself on the 4th floor of the Hospital, realizing the room numbers only went up to 425. Dad was in 450. I finally got directions and headed back down to the lobby, reoriented myself and made for the "new" part of the hospital.

Finally I found the room. Finally I shucked off the winter clothing. Mom was there. Mike was there. Dad was stretched in a hospital bed, breathing in an oxygen mask, sedated, hanging in there. I just hugged my family and listened to Dad's hissing in-out breathing. It was Jethro Tull's Aqualung, or Darth Vader; the quiet, hitched breathing of someone who is not getting everything they need from each lungful of air.

Nothing felt real; even though everything was laid out in front of me. The doctor was patient and kind, explaining things straight, but with gentleness. She advised us to not bother with dialysis today, because the stress of moving Dad to the General across town would've been too hard on him: interrupting his oxygen (and inadvertently cleaning the helpful drugs from his system). She said if he went into arrest in the ambulance, or needed oxygen or his pain medication and the other drugs they were using to help him breathe that it wouldn't be available to him. So, reluctantly, Mom decided against dialysis.

We sat together near Dad, occasionally holding his hand, Mom sometimes brushing back his silver hair. The sun shone brightly through the window, warming the room. We talked about Dad and the fact that he tended to rally under duress: the phoenix rising from the ashes, again and again. Mike said we were lucky that we'd had the time to be with him after his many visits in and out of the hospital; that we'd all managed to let each other know how much we loved one another. Last May, when Dad was scheduled for heart surgery and was fearful of going under, he talked to us, letting us know how much he loved us. We said good-bye last year, and then just enjoyed all the time we had together. So, we were lucky... I guess.

How come I don't feel lucky? I feel empty, wrung out like a wet rag, eyes swollen from crying. I headed out from the hospital around 2pm to do some errands, and eventually picked up Clay at work, because of the bus strike. I drove back to Kanata, picked up some dinner to take back into the hospital for Mom and then headed home to drop Clay off. It didn't really register as strange to see Mike's car parked in front of the house. I just thought... I don't know, that we were going to plan things together for dinner, or he had news about Mom, or something. I came in, babbling about stuff and just doing my usual thing. Mike looked like a part of him wanted to be anywhere but there. He said quietly: "He's gone, Sue. Dad's gone."

I dissolved... falling into the couch in choking sobs. I felt like a part of me was torn right out of my body, crushed and twisted. I couldn't breathe. I felt Mike and Clayton close to me, felt their arms holding me, and just cried into my brother's shoulder. I felt that I would never stop crying. Mike said that Dad had just slowed in his breathing for awhile; that the in-out of his breath got slower and slower. The pauses between each breath hung and then there was another hitched inhalation. And then there was nothing. It was over.

Norman Henry Marsden
June 3rd, 1940 - February 5th, 2009


Me and Dad, 1972.