hallways of the facility. On warmer summer days, I liked taking Dad outside in the facility’s backyard. It wouldn’t matter how many times we looped around the same sidewalk because it was always new territory for Dad.
In the winter, we remained inside the building and made for an odd couple — with me wearing my winter snow boots and Dad often shuffling along in his bedroom slippers. This sight always made the nurses smile and chuckle. When Dad was tired, I would read to him: Dad, a retired University English professor, loved the written word. In earlier years, Dad would commonly read some of his favourite titles to my siblings and I before bedtime. We were introduced to the likes of Mark Twain, Farley Mowat, Lewis Carroll, and Charles Dickens.
Now, I read to him — reintroducing him to the same authors he had once introduced to me. Given the choice, though, I would often choose to keep Dad moving rather than sitting idly on those Sundays.
Note that exercise is good for the body at any age. Without continued movement, the body will stiffen and weaken; older and brittle bones break more easily. When Dad was inactive, I was concerned he would not be as strong and flexible, or as able to heal or fight off infections.
My older sister and her two children would join Dad and I within an hour of my arrival. Together, we would have dinner. Our regular treat for Dad was to bring in take-out food; whether this was pizza or Chinese food, it provided a change from the standard nursing home menu.
June 20, 2004 was a double celebration because we were marking both Father’s Day and Dad’s 75th birthday. In his honour, we brought in seafood and chocolate cake — two of my father’s favourites. Dad seemed to be in good spirits that night with a healthy appetite — he even drank a beer!
After the celebration we accompanied Dad back to his room. I hugged him goodbye — his somewhat musty, wool, button-up sweater tickled my face and Dad grunted his approval. How was I to know that this would be the last hug I would ever give to my father? If I had known, I would have squeezed him tighter and not released my grip as quickly.
My telephone rang at 9:00 p.m. the next evening. “Rick? This is Brenda at the Good Samaritan.”
“Yes?” I replied, without giving the late hour much thought. “How can I help you?”
There was a slight pause before Brenda managed, “Your father has succumbed.”
It was such a clinical term. Shock and grief overcame me. “Wh, wh, when? H, h, how?” I blurted out.
“Just a few moments ago. We were putting him to bed. It appears that he had a stroke.”
The next few minutes of conversation were a blur; eventually, I remember hanging up the phone and calling my sister to share the news. She, too, was stunned. We had just seen Dad, alive and well, only 24 hours earlier.
My older sister and I raced over to the nursing home to tearfully say our goodbyes to Dad. He lay on his bed, half-covered by a sheet and shadowed by the darkened room. The only comfort was that he looked at peace. Brenda sympathized and explained that his passing was quick and without excessive pain. This seemed little reassurance, but what can one ever say at such times to ease the anguish?
Dad’s body could not be stored at the care facility so we had to act immediately. With very heavy hearts, we called a local funeral home and arranged for Dad to be removed. I looked away as the attendants wheeled him to the elevator; all I heard was the clatter of the gurney wheels. When I heard the sound of the elevator doors closing, I turned and looked — but he was gone. After a few more sympathetic hugs from Brenda and her on-duty staff, we returned to my older sister’s home and called our younger sister. As she lived in another city, she had not yet heard the tragic news.
The next week was filled with funeral arrangements, cleaning out Dad’s room, and donating his clothes to a local charity. It all passed in what seemed like a second. Because Dad’s room was immediately required by another waiting senior, we were obligated to move quickly. Looking back, I remember fiercely disliking having to return to Good Samaritan so promptly when the memories were so fresh; however, this was for the best. It can be better to face a challenge head-on than to deal with it later or stall indefinitely.
During these days, my eyes frequently welled up with tears. Little things upset me, such as spotting the bus I used to ride to visit Dad, dusting off the few parental mementos I had adopted, and even reading another vehicle’s licence plate which began with the three letters “URN” (we had Dad cremated). I went for long walks without any destination in mind, just to escape the four walls of my apartment. I felt I had no further direction in my life. I functioned on autopilot through days and nights where I felt orphaned: I was now nobody’s child.
I was not only a caregiver for Dad, but also for my mother. Mom was initially diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. This condition, a progressive neurological disorder of the central nervous system, can strike a young or an elderly person — Canadian actor Michael J. Fox was diagnosed with Parkinson’s at the age of 30, while my mother was diagnosed when she was 68.
Parkinson’s disease, for those unfamiliar with this condition, was first described in 1817 by Doctor James Parkinson, a British physician who published a paper on what he called the “shaking palsy.” With this, Mom’s hands would unexpectedly tremble; her handwriting became smaller and illegible. Her voice became a hushed whisper, and shoulder checking while driving became an unavailable option due to her more restricted mobility. There were many, many nervous moments when I was a passenger in her car.
There was medication, physiotherapy, and vocal exercises to help control the shaking and to make her life easier. There was nothing life-threatening; for Mom, always the stubborn one, Parkinson’s disease proved to be an inconvenience more than anything else. I cannot say the same for what was to come next.
The far bigger blow for both Mom and my family was her leukemia. She and my father had both retired and relocated several years earlier to the warmer climes of Victoria, British Columbia, while the rest of the family remained in Alberta. Considering my parents’ advanced ages, both were in prime physical condition at the time; I thought nothing of the possible future and the potential inconveniences associated with the distance between us. I realize now that this was a huge mistake. As a person ages, he or she will naturally decline so the person and his or her family must prepare. While on Vancouver Island, Mom and Dad did socialize; however, they built a very limited support circle so when all medical hell broke loose, my sisters and I had to act quickly. Although Dad had yet to be officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, Mom’s health news coupled with our joint concerns of how much we could help from a distance created an environment of worry.
There were few options. Mom and Dad agreed to return home to Alberta for a second opinion on Mom’s medical condition. The diagnosis, little surprise, was exactly the same. While they were back home and temporarily rooming with my older sister and her family (certainly not an ideal situation), my sisters and I argued that we could provide far better care for Mom if she was situated locally. To strengthen our case, the three of us often spoke as a unified body — either meeting with Mom and Dad as a group or with the others echoing each of our messages.
Convincing Mom and Dad to move back to Alberta was a long shot. We were comparing the beauty and year-round warmth of their Vancouver Island home to short summers and bone-chilling winters. Maybe Mom and Dad still had a soft spot for their former home or perhaps they realized that their children were bringing up practical and reasonable points. In the end, my parents agreed to move back.
Despite that my parents were former residents of Alberta, they still had to apply for provincial health-care coverage. When my parents relocated from British Columbia to Alberta, they were covered by BC health care for three months from the date of their move. Upon the re-establishment of their residency in Alberta, the paperwork began. In the case of Alberta Health Care, applicants must submit photo identification (e.g., a driver’s licence), a birth certificate or passport, and proof of residency (e.g., a pay stub or a utility bill). Despite being former residents of Alberta, my parents did not receive any preferential treatment; however, their former Alberta Health Care numbers were reactivated, making for at least one shortcut. In the case of other provinces, you should confirm