Winter's Solace

The old fellow lies in front of me, all hooked up to a bunch of machines, tubes of foreign fluids sticking into him coiling by his side. I can tell you I wasn't ready for the sight of this. He looks completely unlike the man I've always known, the one who was so seemingly huge and frightening. He actually looks kind of dead already, truth be told. Thing is, I know it's him, but at the same time, there's a small part of me that thinks it's not. This small, withering body lying before me is not the person who used to wake me up with a thunderous boom of my name, nor the one who would stare me down when I had done something forbidden by family law. No, this is someone else I imagine, because my father would never look like this.

I turn to leave and am instead beckoned by the meekest of voices from across the room. In a small chair, in a dark corner, sits my Aunt Mary. Her presence makes my father's predicament real now. She is a tiny woman, scarcely five feet tall, and I have always marveled that she is my dad's sister, as there is virtually no physical similarity between the two. Her eyes are a brown so dark you'd think them black, whereas his are an icy blue. I feel a little uncomfortable as I get close to her, because she is going to want a hug, and I have never really been a big fan of all that affectionate propaganda. No one ever means it, right?

"Brian…” she starts, as the dreaded tears well up in her eyes. I spy the wastebasket of tissues, indicating she's been doing this crying bit for ages. I am suddenly in the arms of this diminutive woman and I sort of hug her back, flushed with embarrassment. She doesn't seem bothered by it though. In fact, I don't think there's a thing I could do or say right now that would make an ounce of sense to her.

"It has the best of him now".

Well, that was kind of blunt, wouldn't you say? I mean, don't try to ease into it ,why not just hand me a hefty bag and tell me to hold it open? Instead of pelting her with sarcasm, I simply smile and say, "All that matters to me is that his suffering is nearly over."

What do I know about his suffering? I remember telling him in our last discussion that I hoped he did in fact endure a prolonged period of pain. I didn't know, of course, that he would get the dreaded "C" word. I'm not an animal. No one ever really means it when they say things like this anyway, do they? I sort of let myself ponder this for a second, and then ease myself away from it. I have enough to deal with, and need to cast my own guilt aside. Instead, I peer outside again and see huge feathery snowflakes swirling through the air. I've always enjoyed winter, the winding down of a long, generally tumultuous year.

I nearly forget Mary is there, until she says meekly “I guess the driving was a bit of a nightmare for you?”

Nightmare? Is she kidding? Snow or coming to watch my father die? Which one seems more terrifying to the common person? I hesitate to use the word normal, because on principle, I don't care to believe such a concept exists. My relationship with my father has never been normal. I have worked so hard to stay away from him, yet due to biological obligation, have been called to this ghastly place to see him fade away. Unusual punishment he has come up with this time.

"Ah, the drive wasn't too bad Aunt Mary, in fact, I suspect the snow has kept most of the motorists off the road, which is a good thing, and I found a handy parking space as well". What am I saying here? Parking spaces? Am I actually speaking, or is this all in my head? Strangely, she is listening to me, nodding. “If you need a ride home , I’d be happy to give you one”.

“I'm not leaving tonight. Your father needs someone with him, in case..." her voice trails off. The notion of my father needing anyone is preposterous to me. He hasn't ever needed me to my recollection . People are always looking for a death to spice up their lives aren't they? I mean, you always hear those old women who are going on about so and so not looking well, and probably won't be long until...

Suddenly, he stirs. I'm not sure where to run and hide, and I'm actually shocked at myself for thinking of doing this, but there you have it, my first instinct. Instead, I stand firm in place. Mary smiles down at him as his eyes slowly peel themselves open. He looks disoriented at first, but without warning, his gaze becomes fixed on me. I sort of look down at him, half smiling and all nerves.

"Hi there dad, how are you?" I ask in a small voice that I cannot believe came from my mouth. Even in silence, he reduces me to a child.

"Brian", he says flatly, sort of an acknowledgment I would guess. He takes a long laboured breath, and expels it with some wincing. "Never been better ," he says. Oh, a joke? This is different. I laugh lightly.

"Why are you laughing? It's true! I'm at the end, and frankly, I'm relieved." I am confused as to whether life was annoying to him, or was it painful? It seems unlikely to me that he could have felt any sort of emotion.

"Well now dad, you shouldn't be saying things like that, you're going to get better, you know that". Why I bothered to say this I have no idea, because we both knew I was talking nonsense. Lucky for me, he doesn't attempt to argue, because even on his deathbed, and me in perfect health, he is smarter than I am. He sighs that familiar sigh, the one that tells me that once again, I have ceased to surprise him with what I don't understand. It is long, a wind that blows forever, and it chills me to the bone. “Typical,” he simply mutters.

"Well, we could always just throw you out the window I guess". I am astonished to have said such a thing, and yet, I am sort of pleased to realize I’m not kidding. He is too weak to do anything about it, and I’m taking advantage of this.

His silence seems to be filled with confusion, and I relish it. "Here I am," I think to myself "and I'm not leaving this time, until it's done, or until hell freezes over, whichever is first."

Mary clears her throat, her way of announcing her departure. "I'm going for coffee “. She gently caresses my father’s arm, slowly makes her way to the door and opens it, not looking back, as she walks through.

Alone with this father of mine. Years of nothing but condescension, humiliation, all swaddled in a hospital gown, on a cold December day. I walk over to the window, and peer out into the street below. Phosphorescent lights are everywhere, peeking through the snow, and the colours let me realize that Christmas is near. I fold my arms and try to remember a Christmas when I felt the magic I'd heard so much about. My parents were never ones for the notion of Santa Claus, they thought it foolish to let me believe in anything that could enhance whatever dreams I had. The rest of the year lead up to this one day for most kids, and to me, it had always been a day to dread, a day when I'd be forced into spending a solid twelve hours in the company of people who were incapable of love. It was always a let down, and now, to really make things more vile than ever, the old fellow chooses Christmas to die. What a menace. What an egocentric fool.

"Brian?", he croaks from where he lies, “Are you going to just stand there or are you going to talk to me?”

Am I to believe my ears? He wants to know if I‘ve anything to say? Where should I start? Shall I tell him I don't know how? All I have in my mouth is venom? I turn around slowly, and look at him. "I guess I have nothing to say at the moment”. "Are you scared?," I wonder silently, "Do you feel anything about this? Have you found God yet? Is there anything to look forward to?

"No Brian," he says, softer, more subdued, "I mean, why don't you ever speak to me?"

I turn slowly around and approach him. I take my time, I am not sure how I shall respond or what may come forth, but I know I have to go to that bed. I sit down in the chair placed to his left side, and put my head in my hands. This whole situation seems like something I've dreamt up, it isn't really happening. And yet, it is. I have the chance to tell him off, and yet, the words won't come. I just look at him, quiet, and try to think of what could possibly make anything change, even in the few short days or hours we have. He seems to be as determined as ever to maintain eye contact with me, and I find myself strangely hypnotized by the mirror image of myself. This is my father.

"Dad...", I begin, but instead, follow this by a long deep sigh.

"Brian?"

"Dad, we talk all the time", I say flatly, knowing it to be a lie.

"Brian, I think you know very well we do not, and I was wondering what on earth I've done to you to make you so full of bitterness. My only son is here and I don't really think he cares that I'm dying, and I'd like to know why. Do you think you could find it in yourself to answer me that one question?"

I think about this briefly. How could this person, whom I’ve always felt inferior to, in every conceivable way, have seemingly no clue as to why I am the way I am with him? Is it possible that I’m not the only one who lives in a world of delusion? Do I care? Guess I don't really know. It didn't seem like it was possible that he'd ever die, that's certain, so I never really entertained the thought. Yes, it is disturbing, I'll tell you that, to see anyone so hollow and broken, but actually thinking about this being the last time we'd speak to each other never occurred to me. I suppose I have a talent for making myself see things the way I want to see them, and that this cold war would last forever. Yet, as I stand here looking at this man, who studies me with pleading eyes, I realize I need to seize this moment. I have been given a rare opportunity, and I can’t let it die.

"I don't remember the last time we ever had a discussion that ended with me feeling anything but defective! Nothing I ever did was ever good enough, you always had the better way and I had no hope in hell of finding it unless you pointed it out. I have tried a million different ways to get you to see who I am, and I know I've not succeeded. In fact, I think you are disappointed with who it is you are forced to call your son, so that may explain why I'm so damned bitter." Not a drop of remorse at one word spent.

"Well, you’ve been thinking about this have you?" he asks with a touch of disdain in his voice. I really can't blame him, I mean, it's the first time I've really had a go at him, and he is utterly defenseless, save his razor sharp tongue. I look about the room and notice that there is nary a flower nor card in the place. It is the coldest room I've been in. He must have felt this, must have realized that this was the sum of his years. A grey and humourless room. Did he ever think he'd languish here? Did he really suppose that anyone, other than Aunt Mary, a woman so bored with her own life that visiting the deathbeds of others had become a hobby, would come to him here in his time of need? After all these years of making others around him feel like they didn't matter?

"You think I'm disappointed in you, is that it?" he asks sharply. I find I cannot respond, and turn away to face the falling snow, which is warmer to me than any other view at this time. So calm, so peaceful, so simply white. Snowflakes are so much like people, fluttering aimlessly to reach a destination, and not one like another. How lovely to float randomly, and to be content wherever you land. My silence is too much for him, I can hear the impatience in the clicking of his tongue. He continues, " I have never once said I was ashamed of you."

"I didn't say ashamed dad, I said disappointed. There's a difference. Ashamed implies I have done something wrong, but disappointed implies I didn't do anything at all."

Silence.

"I cannot undo anything you may think I've done to you and I'm too tired to offer you anything but the truth. I don't want your sympathy, and I don't think if I did, that I'd get it anyway, but I did want you here." He coughs a little, and tries to straighten himself up. “ I just wanted to do something for you, that my father never did for me when he died, and that is, to offer you the chance to tell me what you think of me, to my face while I can hear it, no holds barred."

So I stand, confounded, searching the floor for explanation. He wanted me here, so I could tell him what a bastard he is? I'm completely lost and I look at the door to the room, and briefly think about what it would be like to simply walk through it and never look back, just storm through and forget that I even had a father. Yet, this is not me.

"So, essentially, you're giving me permission to tell you all the horrible things I've thought about you through the last 40 years of my life, is that it?"

"Yes Brian, I think you must have some things on your mind, and we're not sentimental people, so you may as well say what it is you'd like to say while there is someone here to hear you".

I am amazed, that even in his state of pain, he finds a way to make me hurt more. All I've ever wanted, I realize, is to feel a little bit of the bond that a father and son share, for a moment, or second. Now, even this moment is his, all his, and he controls it, has ordered it, and I am here to serve him. Suddenly, I know what I must do. This has to also be about me.

I move closer to the bed, and I look deep into my father's eyes. I lean over the bed, past the bedrail, and I very gently kiss the top of his head, with one hand stroking his hair. I then take his face in my hands, and force him to meet my gaze. I feel like perhaps this is the first time I've looked at my father, the first time I've seen his face, and the first time I've seen his blue eyes.

"Despite what you may think, old man, I love you, more than I've ever hated you, and nothing could be more true". I am just as surprised as he appears to be to hear myself say it, and I realize that somehow, in some way, I mean what I have said, and not just because he is dying, but because I do. I’m suddenly aware that the years past were not just about him, but were also mine, and I had chosen to live my role. All of the sadness and hurt seems to be balanced now by the recognition that I love this man, this man who gave me life, and this man who is soon to bid his farewell.

I sit down on the side of the bed, and put my left arm around him, squeezing gently. Happy to feel like a little boy again, and desperate to call him ‘daddy’, something I never have. My words seem to have dismantled a wall long ago erected, in both him, and in me. Slowly he takes my right hand in his, and there is a gentle pressure. He looks into my eyes, and I see him there, his fear, and his love, and all of his regrets. I understand.

We look out the window, so quiet, we can hear the snow fall. I know that I will be here with him, until the end.