A Sudden and Tragic Loss

I’m washing the dishes at my dad’s condo and I turn to say something to him – a thought about going to California to visit our cousins this spring. 

A blind spot is back in my left eye. I can’t quite see him. I rub my eye and shift my head, and cock it a bit down and to the right, to see if I can see him. 

But I can’t. 

He’s not there. He hasn’t been since November.

Instead, there is a spot where he used to be. I’m sure if I just change the angle or direction I’m looking, I’ll see him. He’ll walk into the kitchen from his home office, with a pack of tiny triple A batteries he needs to put into the remote control, or he’ll have just been grabbing his gloves to take Zara, his greyhound, out for a walk. 

I dry my hands and lean over the counter. I’m alone in the condo and I’m doing the work of slowly cleaning and shutting it down. I shake off the tears that now cloud my vision. I’m deep breathing to try to keep the sobs at bay. I’m successful, just some slow tears and a lump in my throat that makes my ears hurt. 

My senses are askew over this sudden and tragic loss. My dad, Jim, was well, just shy of his 80th birthday. We came home from vacation and checked in to see if he wanted to have a coffee. “I think I’m getting a cold,” he said. “But give me a call tomorrow.” We did. The cold had settled in. “No coffee today, thanks,” he said, between coughs. By Sunday, he asked for cough medicine to be dropped off. By Monday, he felt lightheaded and took a cab to the hospital, the cough now relentless. 

“We can’t believe he walked in,” the ER nurse said to me. “His oxygen is so low, and his heart rate is in the heart attack zone.” Scary, but I thought, Okay, let’s infiltrate his body with medication and fight what we thought was pneumonia. I looked at his skin on his arms, elbows, ankles, expecting to see something outward. He looked normal. He couldn’t breathe, but he looked like his normal self.

The real cause of his desperate cough was determined quickly – he had Covid. This is a severe case, they said, admitting him to the ICU. In a day or so, the team knew that he needed more help. The BiPAP machine pushed oxygen in and out, but as soon as it was taken off his nose his levels dropped, and the machines made the sounds you expect when things are not normal. 

He was transferred to Brampton’s William Osler ICU, the epicentre of Covid response. I learned about their expertise when I worked for Peel Region and supported the public health team in the Covid years. Jim’s transfer stretcher sat empty, under a framed Toronto Star article profiling the heroes of Covid – the nurses, doctors, respiratory therapists. I was made to wait outside while they blanketed him with tests, lines, medications and pumps. Alarms continually bleeped, and they rushed to answer each one. The medical director came out to meet me. “He’s in the right place. If anyone can do anything for him, it’s here.” I felt a wave of relief; he pointed me to the article on the wall. “I remember,” I said. 

The next morning, I came in and Jim was sitting up. He had black coffee and a bit of pudding. I was so relieved, my knees almost buckled as I waved from outside the air-locked unit, waiting to gown, mask and shield up. “Hi, Dad!” I whisper-shouted from outside. He gave his usual friendly wave. 

I told him he looked better. He asked me if I had been taking care of tasks he had pointedly told me to do. Telling me where his bank info was, what to do with the dog, the floor needed cleaning, the fridge needed emptying out. I told him, “I’ve done everything I can, Dad, just rest and let’s talk about how we are going to get you out of here.” I felt a tiny bit hopeful and I went home, telling my son, Adrian, and my husband, Derrick, that he was definitely in the right place. 

The next day, when I showed up, his lungs showed signs of small tears because of the pressure created by the BiPAP. He was in pain, listless, frustrated, feverish and not breathing on his own, still, no matter how much medication they pumped into him.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. And then, the only moment of real sadness and quiet desperation that came from him the entire time: “Can I qualify for a lung transplant? I’m ready to live my next ten years.” He wanted to live, but not like this. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to not fight when he told me he was ready to be intubated.

We waited until Adrian could come down from work. We hung out, talked for a bit and watched him try to rest, but the doctors were called away to work on the arrival of several house fire victims. Dad said, it’s time for you to go. “Bye Grampa. Have a rest and then we’ll work on the cars again together, okay? We’ll see ya on the other side of this,” Adrian said, all his cells present and leaning in on my dad, trying to give him life and energy. I went and hid in his adjoining washroom, and gasped and swallowed and gasped and swallowed. His nurses, named Angel and Lourdes, told us it would be a while because of the fire victims. We decided to go home. My dad waved a small goodbye at me as I de-gowned and wiped my tears from outside his door. 

The next morning, he was placed in a coma and intubated, and I thought, seeing him at rest, that it was reasonable to assume he’d get better. No underlying serious health conditions. Cognizant and sharp. He just needed time. 

We gave him the time. And it did not work. He never recovered. We spoke to Angel, and he put in the orders for one day after Adrian’s birthday. We were present with my dad. We leaned in on him. I tried to give him a final gift of love by telling him, “We are good! We are with you! You are going to a place where the golf is good! You have the perfect morning tee time with your friends! You will shoot just under par.” I told him he would then get to, “drive fast, down the highway, with nobody in your way!” I told him, “It would be a perfect day, and we’d have dinner at the end of it.” I said these words over and over. He took his final breaths, the machines all quieted, their clicky-cycles complete. I leaned in, “You did a great job, Dad. Really good.”

Now, even though I was right there, I’m still expecting him to be right here, at home. How can that be? I shake my head to refocus. The blind spot where he should be appears throughout my days.