An excerpt from an email received from another beautiful friend today of Dad’s 🙏—
I know that it is very difficult for you to cope up with the pain and sorrow caused by your father’s death, the extraordinary man who was like a star, radiating eloquence, nobility and invention. He was the first Canadian writer to offer me his sincere friendship when I, as a writer from Europe, first appeared on the Edmonton literary scene in 2013.
Richard edited two of my poetry books entitled [omitted for privacy]. He also wrote an excellent review for both of these books. Our ideas about literature and our aesthetic tastes were very similar.
Let me to express my deepest condolences on the loss of your beloved father, who left indelible marks on the literary world of Edmonton and enriched Canadian literature with his wonderful works in several literary genres.
How has a year gone by since this beautiful, heaven-sent day late August 2023. Dad had encouraged me for a few weeks to bring my cruiser bike over to reunite for a ride together around the neighbourhood- a beautiful trip back in time, in the spirit of past bike rides and adventures.
He taught me how to ride. I was a nervous, off-balanced latebloomer when it came to riding without training wheels, but he was determined to enable me to feel that freedom of the bike. That joy it had always given him throughout his life. Delaying had come to that critical point, it was time to push the bird out of the nest. He took me to my Elementary School parking lot and around and around I circled, with him running behind, catching me if I tilted, and letting go quietly when he sensed I was ready to fly solo.
We had so many beautiful rides together. Safely down sidewalks to new worlds my young eyes had never seen. We even parked outside the University and rode in to enjoy fall and its offerings, and he introduced me to the beauty and magic of campus and Hub mall with its coloured shutters opening to the mall strip below lined with services and glorious windows above.. and lines of vending machines (to a young child this was quite marvellous!)… I fell in love with University and longed to return (and did, as undergrad and alumni).
On this day our trip was shorter, but just as impactful. Down familiar roads I grew up, making the journey from house to our old condo in Lakewood Estates blocks down, where my first memories of childhood begin. We rode around the old development, stood in front of our old home, reminisced. I must admit I peeked through the back fence boards to see the back yard, too. I remember so much, the fence he painted, the shed he built, the balls he’d teacher me to catch and throw. So many memories.
(Dad and Heather by the condo as it was being built, below, 1977)
I’m so grateful for that bike ride with you that day. Thank you for having the foresight as you always did, the energy to propel that experience forward for us to share ans savour together. How I wish I had more rides with you left, more days where I followed your bike, letting you forge the path and enjoying the ride.
I’ve not taken my bike out for a spin this year. The catastrophic crises of the last ten months and a late spring start and then suddenly July kept me from even filling my tires with the bike pump Dad lovingly bought for me. I’m just not brave enough to ride solo again, or to forge a path without him in the lead.
Born in September 16, 1921, but not exactly. We celebrated Grandma’s birthday on this day, but in reality a busy harvesting season had kept her Dad (Great Grandpa) registering in August. My Grandma (Vera Bonderoff) is on the right, my great aunt Hazel is in the middle, and my great uncle John is on the left. Happy Birthday, you’ve been gone many years but I think about you every single day. ❤️
My beloved rescue bunny Skye has been unwell for three excruciating days. As is often the case with “exotic” animals, her diagnosis was never 100% definitive, but in all likelihood she had a gastrointestinal obstruction as well as a possible ankylosing spondylitis flare. She was accepting treats from Grandma at 5:30 am; when I came to her at 7:45 am her disposition had changed 180 degrees. First panic that seizes any floof parent is when snacks are refused. My stomach always tightens instantly and red alert bells scream in my ears. Outside life ceases to have meaning and heavy surveillance begins to watch every tiny flinch, every shift, every behaviour pattern that could offer a clue. I have a deep connection with this girl and we’ve been through many challenges together. I instantly could tell she was in pain in the midsection.
Rabbits don’t shout out their pain or complain about it; they just go (imperceptivly) quieter, settle in, and try to tough it out. Dad was much the same way in the spring. Similar to many of my experiences with Skye’s medical challenges, I never knew how much discomfort he truly was in before receiving treatment. In both cases, of course, to a finely tuned observer, there were many signs.
Onward to watching the clock; waiting for office hours and opening. Known (clinic/own physician) is always preferable to unknown emergency; Dad too. At the last pet emergency they wouldn’t look in Skye’s ears for a potential dizziness episode. I called her office early before opening on a whim – and someone answered! If you don’t ask, the answer is always no. I always ask. Ask in a thousand different ways if you have to.
I made my heartfelt two minute plea to the gatekeepers (reception/techs) to the medical professionals. I knew Skye needed help immediately, but they live in a world of facts, outputs, measurables. I tearfully shared her status and told her I was at her mercy, then breathlessly waited for the response. A cancellation, can you be here in six? We were there in five.
In Dad’s case, though, many more steps. It is much more difficult to get critical care for a human. Clinic visits and tests and desperate trip to emergency and triage failures and another trip to emergency and endless wait times and incorrect triaging yet again and three days in purgatory in emergency hell on earth until going nuclear and involving patient advocacy. The health system is deeply flawed. If I had the strength I would go nuclear on public health care in this province. But a friend reminded me of the price, echoing my own hesitation. I do not have the strength to relive that trauma; to be trapped in those moments and the horrors we witnessed and experienced. How many more like us suffer in silence because speaking up is too high a price to pay?
…
Rabbits are an enigma. Vets try to read the subtle signs they give off but they don’t give much information up. Of course their heart rate is fast, they’re terrified to be in the office. Adrenaline can mask pain response. Blood work and diagnostics are cost prohibitive. We were at least blessed to not have to factor in those agonizing cost decisions for treatments for Dad, he stayed three weeks in ICU, likely over $3500 a day for our health system.
For Skye it was examination and then we went into probabilities, likelihoods, dipping into intuition, and costs. As I was signing the consent form for sedation for xray and filling out the form as to whether to rescuscitate I suddenly found myself back in the patient ICU waiting room, doctor sitting with us all round, talking the Night Before. Horrible times, awful decisions. Oh, how my heart bleeds for everyone who goes through those discussions.
Admission. Progress or lack thereof. The doctor consults and next steps. The celebrations over tiny steps forward and despair over steps back. Medications and more medications. In Skye’s case, she was discharged. They stabilized; now the ball is in my court to keep her alive. When family is threatened the wagons circle and I would go to, and have gone to, hell for those I love. The worst part in cardiac ICU is that families only have the margins to work within. The rest is out of control, left to professionals. But damn, did we ever blow to hell those margins trying to move heaven and earth and get Dad through.
In contrast, the margins are much larger with Skye. Skye’s very existence is now back in my hands, there is no IV providing nutrition. As she recovers and the clouds from sedation and illness and pain begin to try to clear, I perform literal life support. Critical care, a mix of essential nutrients, is added to water and syringed lovingly every three hours, until she can eat on her own. For a rabbit even six hours of not eating can spell death; their systems are so fine – almost like a fine sports car engine – that any disruptions bring the whole system to its knees.
There continue to be too many similarities in illness, bringing a torrent of flashbacks. Living on the tiny highs and despairing over the lows. The fog of illness minimizing/prohibiting interaction with the world around and hallucinations. Subtle signs consciousness remains. So many medications, full syringes, empty syringes. So much clinical science, so little natural world. That feeling that there is nothing left to give and collapse is imminent, and yet days later, somehow, continuing round the clock care. Skye is, like Dad was, an absolute fearless warrior in the face of illness. And so I shall relentlessly continue to try to do everything I can in the damn margins unless that final definitive answer comes back no.
Passed by a lifeless squirrel on the road right near Mom and Dad’s a short time ago. My throat caught and tightened. A few minutes later, putting out feed, Dad’s little friend did not come. I didn’t think there was anything left to hurt but my heart hurts. The magpies were already taking care of things as I drove off.
Rest in peace dear heart, you were another connection to Dad. I know he would whisper to you and we both loved you. (Pic from last time we met)
Keychain I’d gifted Dad a few years back below; he loved it. They’re my keys now.
As my brother Scott alluded to in his Eulogy at Dad’s Celebration of Life, Post-It Notes were an endearing part of home life and how Dad kept track of the myriad thoughts within his brilliant ten-steps-ahead-of-everyone-else’s mind. He let no fleeting thought go to waste, they were pure potential energy. In fact, he wrote about this himself in one blog post: https://tothineownselfbetrue.ca/2019/07/07/staying-organized-post-it-notes/. It is very painful for me to share that even in the hospital he used them, to track medicine, lists of concerns for doctors, and unfortunately his symptoms and suffering.
The morning of his quintuple bypass and heart valve surgery, Mom and I met him early in the morning to wait for the surgery pick up. We tried to keep spirits light. I remember telling him how he was in the best care possible. How great it will be to have the surgery behind us all and be on the other side. I told him on a scale of concern, and this coming from worst case scenario Heather, I was not worried. We were all laser focused on optimism and the future. spoke about looking forward to finally making it past the rubicon and onto a journey to healing.
At one point that morning Dad picked up a yellow post-it note from the hospital bed table and pressed it into mine. I glanced at it, and put it in my pocket. We passed the nervous time away with further light talk and my brother Scott joining us brought additional joy and added hopefulness to the morning. The core four – the “fab four” of our family would face this together and make it through, leaning on our collective strength and love.
It was days later I found the note in a pocket. Days after unsuccessful attempts to stop sedation, come off the ventilator and into full consciousness. The note is below (I apologize, in this picture it is stained with my tears):
“If you can stay warm, you shall not perish from the cold”.
Reading it a first time, it seems deceptively simple. But my Dad was a man of great depth. I knew it meant so much more.
In the days that followed I would stay with him during the most impossibly hellish, darkest, coldest nights in ICU. I have never witnessed such levels of suffering. I filled the space with warmth and light and hope and love and beautiful music as best I could. I read messages of love from my friends around the world wishing him well and spoke for hours until hoarse about current events, family loves, passions, and plans and hopes for the future.
As the lights would dim and evening turned to night in ICU, a bone-chilling cold would descend, the likes of which I’d never felt before. One night a respiratory therapist working in the shadows saw me shivering and brought me a warmed blanket. An angel of mercy amongst many cold, (understandably) hardened and (some) fundamentally defective night staff. She whispered apologetically “nobody here knows why it gets so cold at night, not even the staff” and disappeared back into the darkness. I later spotted staff in coat and scarf in the hallway.
During that time in cardiac ICU and in the time following July 29, pain and loss and grief has brought winter to my heart and spirit. I’ve lost my connection to my own life source and spark within, in turn that connection to the life breath and energy of the universe.
I continue to struggle with the mysteries of Dad’s last note. I know that within this note is the road map for survival but there is a puzzle wrapped inside. How do I stay warm and keep from perishing from the cold in a world without him in it…
I must write soon about how much Dad loved coming over for “deck time” and enjoying Italian coffee outside on the weekends.
This picture from last year exemplifies how he was all in his glory during those visits, taking in the sun, the sounds of the birds on the lake, the garden and flower abundance all around. My resplendent Dad.
It’s a perfect crisp, sunny morning today, and we drink from the same mugs, but his space sits empty and a tissue box replaces a coffee carafe. I am exhausted from round the clock feedings for my beloved bunny, keeping her alive with sheer will and love. The garden in the yard below is unharvested and neglected. He would still be in wonder, though. I planted so much just to delight him and bring a smile. My hyperactive senses desperately reach out for his presence. I long for his voice and our laughter and deep talks. Where are you, Dad? Are you here?
An impossibly tough day. GI obstruction for our little one, hopefully headed off by early intervention. While waiting to pick her up when hopefully discharged, we visited Dad at the cemetery. A cold wind blew through the trees. We added a few flowers, the sunflower in honour of the ones the squirrel and birds planted at home – the ones we told him about in the hospital but he never got to see.
The city plaque will take months to come; I added a small one with a feather etched on the side. Anyone who read my post about portents will understand why.
We glimpsed a squirrel preparing for fall nearby. Our beloved squirrel whisperer would nod and smile in approval.
Dad is beside my beloved Grandma and Grandpa Reade by a lovely tree.
The cold wind continues to blow. I think of the Wind and the Willows story that you read to me, Dad. One of many beloved times we spent together sharing books. I am afraid of fall, but perhaps shouldn’t fear so much – I am in winter already. I will share the last writing you gave to me on the eve of your surgery next post.*
Deck time hit suddenly; it will be the post after Deck Time. ❤️
Woke up to my therapy bunny, one of two that are the only source of glimmers of joy for me these days, deeply unwell this morning. I have been thinking each time facing a hurdle this year I just need to make it through..
The problem is now, there is nothing left of me. I have no resilience left, no strength, no money, nothing. I’m not even clinging to a fragment of the raft’s wood at this point. The relentless series of misfortune has taken everything. I thought that perhaps when Dad passed there would be an easing, the final cataclysmic act… I was wrong and there seems to be no mercy.
