My dad’s best friend died last week. It has been an interesting test of his
dementia and the depths of his brain, breaking the news to him and watching,
waiting, hoping, and wondering HOW and IF this was going to set in.
When I say “best friend” I’m not referring to some
octogenarian who lives down the road and shares the same unfortunate bowel
habits as my dad. I’m not even talking
about the men he meets regularly for lunch to discuss world events with.
I’m talking about Paul.
Paul - my father’s oldest and longest-standing friendship. Paul. His
fellow Canadian who studied at Oxford while my dad was at Cambridge in post war-ravaged
England. Paul. Who lived in my dad’s basement
when his first wife left him. Whom my
dad chose to accompany him to Cortina, Italy, to play hockey with where they ate
like Kings and were treated like royalty, sharing elaborate banquets of food and middle of the night pillows
fights with the beautiful Italian Marquesa. Paul. With
whom he spent countless hours commuting across Europe via train, all the while
discussing poetry, philosophy, life and wisdom.
Paul knew the depths of my dad’s mind before any of the rest
of us had even met him. My father was
already 51 years old when I was born. He
and Paul were old souls by that time.
“Oh, PAUL” my dad would say.
He started every story about him the same way, with a jokingly
unapproving shake of his head, “OH Paul…” and a laugh, “I REMEMBER the day…”
Many stories would talk of Paul’s turbulent times, the times
his marriages failed, the times my dad skated faster, studied harder, achieved
greater. Oh, Paul.
What his patronizing “Oh Paul” statements often neglected to
mention were the many accomplishments “poor Paul” managed to achieve subsequent
to his two-year sojourn in my father’s basement; a successful TV and film
producer, a father, a member of the Order of Canada, a published author, the
husband several beautiful women, one of which turned out to be his ultimate
soul mate. Both my dad and Paul managed,
somehow, despite their mutually head shaking flaws, to become successful
intellects, fathers and, on subsequent attempts, lucky, happily devoted
husbands.
Ironically, these two men who were so competitively similar
in their early days, greeted their final aging process in drastically different
ways. While my dad’s brain withered,
Paul’s remained strong and vibrant enough to witness and rebel against the
decay of the rest of his body. He fought
hard against his first heart attacks: he started meditating and drastically
changed his diet and his drinking.
“Oh Paul” my dad would say after he would hobble his scrawny
legs upstairs for a drink after his daily meditation. “Ooooh, Paul.”
He NEVER forgot who Paul was.
What a cruel twist of fate that these two aged so
differently.
Paul fought hard against death. He worked until the bitter end and published his last and final book of an 8-volume saga just weeks before his sudden demise. He died with his head held high and his wits about him while my dad slowly withers, his mind taking over his ability to do anything with what is left of his body.
You know instantaneously that someone’s death is going to impact
you when their demise affects your calendar so drastically. My mother cried for days, changing and
cancelling dates she had prearranged in their calendar for Paul’s upcoming
trips, celebrations and his last and final book launch.
“He always brought sunshine to our house,” she lamented.
“OH, Paul…” said Dad, not entirely sure why his wife was
crying.
The night she decided to tell my father the news, my mom told
him over a signature drink of vodka on ice - -not something they ever indulged
in, but a staple for Paul since his latest health kick.
“He gets it.” were all the details I got via a text that
night. I certainly hope he got it enough
to console her at least. I had no other
choice but to believe it.
It wasn’t until last weekend that I was down for the weekend
to spend some time with him while my mom was running a conference that I got my
answer.
I knew right away that something was off because dad was sitting
on the hallway stairs. He has many
perching spots, but halfway up the stairs isn’t one of them. As often happens with Alzheimer’s patients,
our turning up was a surprise for him, so he put down the package he was
looking at and rejoiced in the sudden unexpected visit of family.
“Hey, Lyssie!” he said, smiling excitedly, “And Mia!”
He was neither halfway
up nor halfway down but somewhere in-between.
His excitement faded when he looked down at his hands and
saw what he was holding. Paul’s last and
final book. Its published version had
just arrived in the mail.
“Or at least…I THINK it came in the mail” he said looking
with puzzlement at the strange packaging that lay strewn across the bottom
steps.
“Ah yes…” he said, forgetting once again what was making him
sad, “Paul Almond! He wrote this!”
He opened to the page where the insert held the information
he was trying so hard to process,
“Lyssie…” he said as he looked at the glossy picture of his
beloved friend smiling up at him, “Why does it say In Memoriam…1926 to 2015…did
he…?”
There was a tear.
Just one. And one
heartbreaking look as he tried so desperately to understand.
“Yes dad.” I said as straightforwardly yet sympathetically
as possible, “Paul died.”
“When?”
Last week.
“How?”
His heart.
“Oh…” he said, “You knew.”
And then, just like that, in a mere flash of an instant, my
dad’s heart, with all the strength and stability that Paul’s so unfortunately
lacked…just forgot.
“Oh, PAUL.” He said as he gathered up his cane and hobbled
up to greet his Granddaughter. “Did you
just drive down today? I was just
getting the mail…”
It was 80 odd years of love and friendship and competition. And I can’t help but ask the question: which
one came out victorious?
Oh, Paul. How much
you will be missed.
Oh, Dad…how much we miss of you.
Posts
