The Processing of Grief

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.