Chapter 3: Letting Go
"The Diagnosis"
I got the phone call from my sister the same day my father was supposed to leave the hospital and move into long-term care.
“Robyn, the doctor just called. I don’t know how to tell you this – He’s got Covid, Robyn. Dad’s got Covid.”
Of all of the fears that I had internalized over the past months – dad falling down a flight of stairs, dad cracking his head open, his weight dropping below one-hundred pounds – Covid was the one fear I had never conceptualized. I knew it was a real concern and that the hospitals were having outbreaks, but that it would be our family, our father – that was never a consideration.
After I got the news, the conversations with my father were surreal. He seemed to be entirely okay with his diagnosis. I would start to cry while talking to him, and he couldn’t understand why I was so upset. At one point, he told me, “I’m not really worried; I’ve heard these tests show positive when they are actually negative.” Then the doctor would tell me that he had upped my father’s oxygen or that he was trying another steroid, and dad would say, “I have no symptoms yet, I think I might just pull through this, Bobs.”
Of course, I had heard about the other children of Covid patients, right around my age, in our forties and fifties, talking about what it was like for them when they could not say good-bye or even see their parent in the days, weeks, or months before their death. I had heard their stories of how helpless they felt, how responsible. But now, there was an urgency to their words that I had not understood before. I could see and feel their wound, and I could sense my own wound growing, somewhere inside of me, but I could not find it, label it, or begin to tend to it.
It’s not like I needed a video camera to see my father’s hospital room; I’d seen it a hundred times on the evening news. I am a part of the generation that will spend our lives breaking down the ways in which we failed our parents. Thousands of our elders dying alone, hooked up to ventilators and oxygen tanks, struggling for air in bleached-white rooms, strangers with plastic shields hovering above, unrecognizable faces holding their hands through latex gloves.
I imagined my father getting confused some days and thinking that maybe I, his daughter, was there with him, laying her dyed-blue hands upon his fading body.
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Four days into my father’s Covid diagnosis, I decided to start my good-byes. He could still talk on the phone, at least a little, so this seemed the time to do it. Although frustratingly inadequate, it was a chance to say what we needed to say. But in his alternate reality, he was still pulling through, one of the lucky ones, a miracle case, so the good-bye was tricky.
“Are you feeling sad, Dad?”
“No,” he answered, “I feel good.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, not scared.”
“Do you have any feelings or words that you want to tell me, Dad, just in case, I mean, just in case something goes wrong, even though we know it probably won’t…”
There was quiet for some time, but when he answered, his voice was a little crackly, a little broken, with an emotion I hadn’t realized I yearned for until I heard it.
His words to me were so quirky – he said to me: “You’re a good kid, Bobs.” I had never heard him say such a kind thought to me.
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My father had let me down relentlessly, like a project he undertook, like other men take up woodworking or fixing up old cars. The list of the annoyances and grievances filled up my journals – pages written, torn out and trashed, sometimes burned at midnight under the full moon while the smoke of eucalyptus incense unfurled around me.
But my final frustration, as my father’s death loomed close, was ill-timed: I was trying to let go of the grievances, not pile up more. I had hoped and prayed that his slow march to death would bring about some fundamental changes in his character, but I only weighed down myself with my mound of expectations.
I would ask my father about his dying wishes – all “just in case” – and he would ponder carefully and come up with visions of big fat steaks, pints of beer, and pretty waitresses. One night, in particular, he asked me to deliver him some Oh Henry chocolate bars, as the hospital food had become too unpalatable. I didn’t know which was worse, imagining him choking to death on candy, or that a loss of taste meant his Covid symptoms were escalating.
I hadn’t realized how I would feel until I arrived at the hospital, dropping off the chocolate bars at the front desk like other families would drop off keepsakes or photo albums. I could not meet the attendant’s eyes as I asked him to deliver the cheap and gaudy-coloured candy to my father in the Covid ward. I could feel the attendant’s gaze upon me, studying me, or so I thought. I turned and walked away as quickly as I could, catching a glimpse of my wild eyes and uncombed hair in the glass-door exit. I averted my eyes, propelled my body through the revolving door, and finally took a breath when the frozen air hit my skin.
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Two days later, the doctor telephoned and said that my father was fading, and they had increased his oxygen from five units up to ten. The doctor told me, slowly and methodically, that my father had between three and five days to live.
As much as a part of me had expected it, the news sent shock waves through my body. A mantra started forming in my thoughts, day and night: This is not happening to us; this is not happening to us.
The next morning, the news was worse: my father was on maximum oxygen and had between twenty-four and forty-eight hours left to live. When I called my father an hour later, I wasn’t sure if he would be able to pick up his phone, but he did. His voice was weak, halting, and I pressed my cheek into the plastic screen, asking questions that no longer had answers.
A part of me still believed my father would conjure up essential words for me, last dying words of love, something I could carry with me over the years. I asked him who I should call – his sisters? His nephews? Did he want a video call with his great-grandchild or his grandchildren? Was there anyone at all that I should call and tell them good-bye?
When I finally understood what my father was asking for, I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall, and let my body sink down its length until I was perched on my toes, with my forearms and forehead tucked deep into the space between my knees.
“Yes, dad, of course, we can do that. We can drive them over to you this afternoon. No, it’s not a problem, don’t worry.”
I wanted to be angry, but my feelings were more complicated. Something tittered on the edge of my consciousness, and I tried to push it away. But my energy failed me, and a reckoning landed that I had never faced. I could see my father, his highest version, but it was only a picture of him, nothing real. No, it wasn’t even that. It wasn’t a picture; it was a painting. A painting that I had painted myself.
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The hospital called a few hours later to tell me that my sister and I could come into the Covid ward for a compassion visit that very afternoon and say good-bye to our father in person. This gift was unexpected, but discomfort needled at my thoughts. Visions of my father struggling to breathe consumed me. Thoughts of myself, a few weeks later, now struggling to breathe as well. Then, my sister would be next. And then her husband, next after that. All of us dying off, one-by-one, trailing after my father.
I was unable to make the decision. I called my father, and I asked him, "Do you want us to come, Dad? Is that what you want?"
He couldn’t say for sure, so I asked him to think about it and that we would talk again in a few hours.
I called my sister, and her discomfort was as high as my own. She agreed: Dad would decide.
After lunch that same day, things went downhill fast. When I called my father back, he could hardly talk at all and, for the first time, admitted he was struggling for breath. I asked him again, "do you want us to come there, Dad, to be with you?"
My body clenched and unclenched, tilted from side to side while I waited. Then, finally, he said, "yes, please come."
And so, we went. We flew.
And a miracle occurred enroute: suddenly, there was nothing more important, more prevalent to the successful outcome of my own life, that we make it to the hospital on time. That I get to hold his hand, tell him we loved him, tell him his life had made a difference. That we would get to hand him more chocolate bars and that maybe he would even be conscious enough to eat one.
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At the Covid ward of the hospital, it took a good twenty minutes for me and my sister to get geared-up with surgical masks, shields, gowns, booties, gloves, sanitizer; check to make sure no skin was exposed, do a circle to make sure everything was secure. We stared at each other in disbelief: this was not really happening to us; not here; not now.
We walked silently into our father’s dusky hospital room. It was so quiet and utterly still, and before I could even see him on his bed, my stomach began to unclench. A rigidity in my body that I had not known was there began to unfurl. The blood in my body started to pump, my heart thumped loud, and I could feel the skin on my arms and cheeks grow warm. My mind emptied of thought, my shoulders relaxed, and I became a part of that one moment in time.
We spent an hour with our father, sitting by his side, holding his hand, stroking his shoulders and arms. His breath was surprisingly calm, and he could speak a little, in-between deep, long breaths. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult inhale, his eyes would glass over, slightly roll back, and my sister and I would lean close into him, sitting on the edges of our chairs, our own breath stuck in our throats.
When he was able, my father spoke haltingly of our mother when she had died of cancer fifteen years earlier. He told us his final wish was that his death be easy on us and not long and drawn out as hers had been. He did not want us to suffer as he had suffered watching her. All of the confusing conversations I had had with my father over the past days came into focus. His denial of symptoms, his positivity, and his nearly-ridiculous levels of hope took on new meaning. My father’s face started changing shape in front of me. I could no longer recognize him. I could no longer recognize myself.
We prayed with my father, and when it was my turn, I spoke nearly the same words I had said for my mother. I had nothing new to offer. I asked Him to take my father gently, carefully, and lovingly. I asked Him to be waiting for my father, ready to receive him and hold him.
To my father, I said, "Dad, you have been loved. You have lived a good life. There are hundreds of people praying for you in this moment. Family and friends are waiting for you on the other side."
And, somehow, every word I felt to be true.
I had my father’s chocolate bars in my backpack, and before we left, I took them out and placed them on his table. He had already asked for them twice since we’d arrived. His face lit up, so I asked him if I should open one up for him. “No, no,” he said. “Not now, maybe later. Maybe later.” And so, we stood up, my sister and I, and we slid our hands off our father. We turned around, and we walked out of his room. I don’t know how we did all that, but we did.
De-garbing after leaving his room was as stark as the dressing-up had been. Make sure not to touch your skin, your mouth, your eyes. Sanitize after every touch of your gown, your mask, your shield. Throw everything into the garbage and sanitize again. Go straight to the bathroom and wash your hands and then your face for thirty full seconds, scrubbing vigorously.
And on the way out, I took one long last look into my father’s room, one final feeble wave to where he lay, still staring out at us, longingly, knowing his time was now, knowing this was the last time he would ever see his daughters again. His eyes were pleading with me, but I could not say for what. My sister and I walked down the cold hallway, slowly, together, but never more alone.
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I lay in bed that whole night, staring at the ceiling, whimpering at times, choking at others, doing my best to be present with my father while he passed over to the other side. I stayed with him, watching the stars through my window, wondering if they would signal to let me know when he was gone.
The doctor called at eight am the next morning.
“Your father is still alive, although no longer speaking, and his breathing has slowed remarkedly – he has maybe a few more hours left to live. I will keep you updated.” And somehow, him still being alive, made me wonder - is it possible he really could pull through?
I thanked the doctor for his kindness, and then I lay back down on my bed, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe to the rhythm of my heart. Hours or minutes passed; I couldn’t say.
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I must have dozed, and the telephone jarred me awake. The doctor told me that our father was gone. But when I went to hang up the phone, he kept on talking. He told me that my father was one of his kindest, gentlest, sweetest patients. His words were very personal and seemed thought out. He told me that my father’s cell phone had always lain on his bedside table, “in case one of his daughters might just call.” The doctor told me that my father spoke of my sister and me in nearly every conversation, how good we were to him, how kind, how caring. I had visions of turning back time to be this version of a daughter I did not recognize.
Finally, almost as an aside, the doctor told me he had never received a present from a dying patient before and that he felt honoured and humbled. My ears perked to attention.
He told me that when he had walked into my father’s room that morning, my father was waiting for him, eyes wide open, laboured breathing, and with his hands outstretched towards the doctor. My father had no longer been able to talk, but with great compulsion, body shaking, had handed the doctor one of his chocolate bars. My father had clasped the bar into the doctor’s hand as he tried to lift his head up off his pillow, and the doctor had felt – no, he had known – that my father had waited all night for him to arrive.
And then, the doctor told me, when he had walked out of my father’s room, tears in his eyes for a patient he would never see again, my father’s nurses were there, standing at their station. Tears were glistening in their eyes too, and bright yellow Oh Henry chocolate bars were resting against their computer screens.
I hung up the phone in a trance.
On that cold, clear, sunshine-infused Alberta morning, I realized that I was not mourning one man that day but that I was mourning two. One man that I had not wanted to know and one man that I had never gotten to know.
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Twenty-four hours after my father died – with a body we would never get to see or bury – a vision came to me that had been building for weeks. I tried to push it away, but it would not leave me alone. I could see a battlefield, a warzone, full of gurneys and hospitals and oxygen masks.
Bodies lined the corridors, but this was a different kind of war. We were not leaving our young men and women on this battlefield; we were leaving our parents, our grandparents, and their friends.