My Dad Died, I Hope This Helps

It was August Third and I was in Invermere with my family and I was not in a great space. It was month number 5 of the pandemic and my “career” in Stand-Up was (is) on hold for the foreseeable future, I had (have) no money, I was going through turmoil in my relationship (this is no longer a problem, but if I don’t pre-rinse certain bowls to remove stuck-on food prior to putting them in the dishwasher, this could change and will update accordingly) and I have returned to Calgary to live with my mom and stepdad for an undetermined amount of time. I spent most days wallowing in my own self-pity in an oversized moon chair while my mom was exasperatingly redecorating the basement around me. Until one day, in a very on-brand move for this year, everything got exponentially worse.

My dad Facetimed me out of the blue, I asked him how he was doing, he told me he didn’t know where he was, and that he had never “been in this park before.” I asked him if I could call someone to help him, he broke down in tears and told me two things before abruptly hanging up

1. He has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and Dementia (Fun fact: You CAN get both)
2. He didn’t want to see the disease through and wanted to die through assisted suicide as quickly as possible

While maybe not the most contextually appropriate reaction on the face of the earth, after hearing the news, for some reason, my mind immediately thought of this GIF:

This may not come as a surprise to you based on the levity I’m inserting into this, but my relationship with my dad was atypical. I loved him, but he was a difficult person to deal with, and our communication with one another can be described as distant, at best. It didn’t help that the symptoms of Alzheimer's include sudden anger, rash decisions, poor memory and erratic behaviour, which unfortunately were already extensions of my dad’s lucid personality. He seemed to be struggling more and more mentally, but when you’re only form of communication is over facetime, it’s challenging to formally diagnose a person. The day before the diagnosis, he called me asking for help setting up his new computer (and if you think helping a parent set up a piece of technology over facetime sounds challenging, inserting a cognitively degenerative disease adds a new element of frustration akin to watching someone Google “Google” for eternity). At this point in the disease, he had no idea how to even refresh a page, and it became clear that this wasn’t a situation you can simply chalk up to a man in his late sixties not being tech-savvy; something was wrong.

My sister and I both decided to go out to Vancouver to see him, creating logistical issues for both of us. My sister was beginning her second year of PhD studies at the University of Michigan and had to quarantine before we went out, creating constraints that forced her to miss the time that she could have used to create better lesson plans for her undergraduate students that she’s a TA for, all while having to take an international flight during a global pandemic. This also meant that I had to watch Netflix’s third season of Selling Sunset in instalments as opposed to my typical binging that I’ve grown accustomed to. These were our crosses to bear, yet we both persevered.

For many of my peers who have yet to lose a parent, you should know right away that a person just can’t die. The logistics and paperwork are immense. You’re dealing with lawyers, notaries, GPs, Specialists, witnesses, bank tellers, funeral homes and your dad’s landlord who only takes rent payments in envelopes full of cash (the last one may be more of a “me thing”.) What makes it more challenging is that the person in question needs to be present for everything. I tried my best to empathize with him throughout the process, but to have so many people talk about your impending death to you in such a matter of fact way was likely an experience I will never be able to truly comprehend.

My sister and I had 72 hours to get all of the paperwork done before we had to return to our respective cities, and when you’re operating on the timeline of an Alzheimer's patient, patience can wear thin for every party. As we were wrapping up a Zoom call with the notary, my sister proceeded to ask a very reasonable question about our rights as legal executors to our father's estate. For whatever reason, this incensed him. He began yelling, claiming we were taking control of everything, screaming that we are in such a rush for him to die. My sister and I sat there in silence as we saw him try to further articulate his objections, but his brain betrayed him and he couldn’t find the words, causing him to emit a physical response of clenching his fists so tightly that they were vibrating, followed by bursting into tears in our Air BnB. Those three days felt like three weeks. By the end of each day of trying to get everything ready for his death, the remaining energy that my sister and I had was spent silently sitting in separate rooms praying that this whole ordeal of a trip would come to an eventual end. When it finally finished, we were in a good position. All the paperwork was done, he could choose to die when he wants to, and we could organize the date of his death together in a couple of months when he’s ready. For the first time in weeks, we had a reprieve.

Two weeks go by. It’s September 20th. My sister is back in Michigan, and I’m back in Toronto. I’m perched on a stoop with my girlfriend eating Tacos when I get a call from one of my dad’s doctors. They tell me my dad has made the decision to follow through with assisted dying, and he’s going to do it in the next 10 days, and that I suggest I get a flight out ASAP. At the end of this phone call, a familiar GIF creeps into my brain

So I do what the doctor says. Having just finished a three-month tenure in Calgary, I book a flight back and Drive to Vancouver with my mom the next day. I got there the night of September 26th, and the procedure is scheduled for 24 hours. In the final 24 hours of his life, I assumed that there wasn’t enough time that there could be any further hiccups. The following is the sequence of events that happened over the next 72–96 hours with my dad

• He completely forgets that I was coming to Vancouver to drive him to the procedure
• He asks me to extend the procedure for another week. After explaining the logistical obstacles of this (most doctors aren’t “on-call” for assisted dying procedures), he once again thinks that I am trying to rush his death
• After rescheduling the procedure as asked, he cancels that one too, and then he cuts off communication with me claiming I am no longer to be a part of this process with him
• He calls me the next morning asking to rebook it for Thursday, October 1st, seemingly remembering nothing of the conversation of the night before.
• He lets me know that he has cancelled that appointment as well and he actually wants to do it Sunday, October 4th. Before I go back to Calgary, he empties his bank account and gives my sister and me what he has left to recoup the cost financially for all our travelling
• He texts me the next day when I am in Calgary, claiming he now wants to live for one more month, and he needs all the money back he gave us.
• He calls me that evening to tell me he was confused and that he wants the procedure rescheduled for Sunday, October 4th

This list is not to vilify him, but to highlight the toll that Alzheimer's takes on both the caregiver and the victim of the disease. We’re both trying to achieve a common ground when we're operating on two different plains of rationality. Every time I saw his name pop on my phone I waited on bated breath to hear how this ordeal could possibly get any weirder. I felt like that until Sunday Morning

My flight is scheduled to go back to Toronto on October 4th. I send my dad a text that morning because he couldn’t handle phone calls anymore (and in truth, neither could I). I told him I loved him and how proud of him I was for making this decision and keeping his autonomy and agency by choosing when to die than to have the disease take him. He tells me what a good Son I’ve been and then sends me a clip art picture of a fox (no real affinity, I think he just really liked the fox). Those were the last words I spoke to him. He died that morning. I boarded my plane 45 minutes later. August 3rd to October 4th; Two months from diagnosis to death. My feelings likely weren’t conventional when the death of a parent happens. I did have typical sentiments of sadness, anger, denial, relief and then guilt for feeling that relief. The difference for me is when you know exactly what time and day someone is going to die, your time (no matter how short) with them becomes far more purposeful. Not everyone gets to say their last words to there parent was “I love you” and in the final moments, before the fatal injection was administered, I can do nothing but hope he felt loved in the moments right before the dark.

My purpose for writing this was not for any particular reason. Partly because it’s therapeutic, partly because people aren’t allowed to go outside and I’m unemployed and I can only drink coffee and stare at squirrels in my backyard for so long.

If I really think about it, the purpose of this is to express gratitude. In a time where everything around me seems to be crumbling, I have people in my life that I never can fully articulate how grateful I am to have.

If you are reading this, whether we’re best friends or just acquaintances, please consider this an extension that I want to talk to you. It’s become so hard to establish actual connections with people during the pandemic, and loneliness is a plague that can spread quickly in times like this. I’m certain that the pandemic isn’t the only thing likely happening in people’s lives, and general guidance or a sympathetic ear can change a person day. In a mini Call to Action, I encourage anyone who is going through something to please reach out; I’m here, and I’ve got nothing to do but drink coffee and watch squirrels. You matter more than both those things.

To close, I present to you the last picture I ever took with my dad. It’s a Tuesday morning, it’s an unusually sunny day in Vancouver, and we’re going to get coffee. We both got Lattes, he got a scone… It was nice.