Practicing Grief

I’ve braced for my father’s death my whole life.

Dad was two decades older than my friends’ fathers. As soon as I could understand
mortality and average life expectancy, I counted down the years and milestones I might have left
to share with him. I became a child who practised grief.

As a teenager, I snooped through the folds of his wallet to find the neat, white envelope
where he kept his nitroglycerin, as though keeping a secret inventory confirming that he had
slipped a tiny tablet under his tongue might protect me from shock if his heart gave out. That
was the threat in all my worried forecasts; a sudden, massive, lethal myocardial infarction.

There were times I believed I’d arrived at that eventuality, bursting through the backdoor,
my bare feet descending two porch steps at a time. I anticipated the snip of pruning shears that
would prove to be too much exertion. Yet, Dad’s heart defied my worry. So focused on what may
come suddenly, I did not consider that death may slowly claim him, and in minute pieces. There
was no rehearsal for dementia.

The progression was as imperceptible as the curve of the earth reaching out toward an
obscured horizon. The parade of small losses in accumulation are enough to compress my
chest with a weighty grief, yet taken one by one, they were somehow manageable. They nearly
passed without remark. Dementia was something of a pickpocket; it stole while my attention
was elsewhere.

My family, like others, was caught helpless with our hearts and hopes exposed, and
nothing to do but bear witness and endure the reaping. Disease nibbled away at the joys and
freedoms that composed Dad’s quality of life; his pleasure at a job completed or a plan
conceived, his irrepressible drive, his playful, gregarious manner. Its appetite was fickle, forcing
us to constantly adapt around whatever brain function was left intact, before the next pass.

I was not surprised by my father’s physical deterioration- only surprised that I could not
chronicle when exactly, it all happened. The man now occupies such a slim fraction of his former
self, in body and persona. His condition is the result not only of age and illness, but of an
encroaching disengagement from social interaction. It has been heart-wrenching to watch him
shrink in all aspects.

Once tanned, plump skin thinned to a pale, semi-translucent crepe, barely able to fulfill
its promise to keep fluid in and infection out. The old, football injury, a broken pinky finger never
properly set, turned into a gnarled, arthritic, dog-legged knot. The sight of my father’s silhouette
propped at his bedside, with stilt-like legs supporting a bony pelvis in sagging, cotton briefs, is
nothing short of traumatizing. His body gradually wasted in step with his mind.

Early in his illness, words randomly abandoned this once articulate man. He began to
speak more loquaciously, circumambulating evasive nouns, with synonyms and descriptive
metaphors. In this way, his speech became flowery and poetic. Though he would not stop trying
to communicate, he did eventually release the frustration of missing his mark. Instead, he spoke
with eyes alight with hope that we would understand enough of the gist to continue the
conversation, and not abandon him too.

Short term memory slipped more and more often, and nostalgia filled in the gaps. Dad
told the same ancient stories endlessly just to have something to say. Those neurons that bound
his recollections together fired compulsively along with the pain of long-buried traumas, formerly
hidden to me. It was unsettling to see him sob inconsolably over eighty-year-old wounds
trapped in a hippocampus that could neither process nor divert from them. I would wince when
he’d stumble into one of these neurological roundabouts, and I begrudged the hours of tedium
and futility in listening to the worn out narratives, the too-familiar, sentimental conclusions and
the maddening, pitiful breakdowns that followed. Out of patience and sufficient empathy to
remain fully present, I would let my thoughts wander while patting his hand absent-mindedly. I
couldn’t have known I’d soon be wishing he could only reach for connection with coherent
conversation or shared memory, however sad or stale.

The naps got longer and more intrusive. They seemed to break only for meals, if that. He
sat at the table for hours only picking at his plate with much pleading and coaxing, and spoonfeeding
when necessary. The change was alarming as Dad always had a working man’s
appreciation for food. I froze in quiet horror when he took a bite out of a paper napkin, before I
gently pried it from his grip and picked its fibres from the dried pudding on his lips. He could not
always harness the will to swallow those few bites capable of nourishing his wasting body, but
instead let a bolus of food sit in a slack cheek or drop onto his plate. A few sips of warm,
chocolate meal supplement, fueled no more than stiff shuffles from lift-chair to bed.
“Animals know when it’s their time,” his wisdom haunted me. He had been the one to
explain why my childhood pet cat began to refuse food. I entertained guilt-ridden doubts every
time I coerced him into a spoonful. I still question if we were denying him some fundamental
dignity in forcing him to eat.

I feel the same guilt about the little lies and omissions that arose to keep Dad
comfortable, and admittedly, manageable. I know my mother felt it too; she looked ill the day
she tied a scarf around her neck and told him she was going to church. It was a half-truth. We
left Dad with an older grandchild while we attended my uncle’s funeral, exchanging frequent
reassurances that our dishonesty was justifiable. Dementia robbed Dad of his ability to say
goodbye to his baby brother, and we were complicit.

All these small indignities run together in a difficult, blurry timeline. However, it’s easy to
isolate the afternoon when my father didn’t know me. He mistook me for a personal care worker.
It simultaneously amused and shattered me when I had to introduce myself as his daughter, the
youngest of six. The news was received like finding a forgotten twenty in the pocket of last
winter’s coat. His eyes lit up to hear his life had been so prolific. There was never a day in my
memory that I hadn’t craved and chased that light, and I had to feel satisfied that I had elicited it,
by whatever means.

How difficult it is to grieve the living. One series of bad days can be followed by a rally, a
reprieve… or days so much worse, they are awash in regret for not recognizing that morning
when a last walk outside might have been possible. An easy rule would be to ring each day for
its worth, to walk outside every morning, but that is a difficult platitude to follow. We are primed
to lean hard into the illusion that there will be more chances. Few of us are not afflicted by this
human amnesia, and fewer still can discern which chances should be passed up, when it is time
to let them go. This is most painful for caregivers trying to anchor their loved one to the living;
the uncertainty of what to release with ample grief and grace, and what to fight, often
gracelessly and futilely, to retain.

Dementia is a process of distillation. Dad’s able-bodied and able-minded traits
evaporated, leaving a thick, sluggish residue of who he really is. If in that distillate, a chuckle or
a glimmer of personality surfaces as proof that he is still here, then I am moved by the privilege
of holding hands with a person who has very nearly become pure spirit. It is akin to the sweet
awe of cradling a newborn. Those moments are rare and precious. More often, the sacredness
of the situation is derived from the love the man has cultivated over a lifetime. The indignity of
his condition ebbs enough to be eclipsed by the profound dignity reflected in the adoration his
legacy commands, and the gritty tenderness we are able to generate despite our heartbreak. All
our capacities for love and compassion have been distilled as well. He has loving company in
this refiner’s fire. That is a beautiful, bittersweet finale I never expected.


I could have posted written entries to this website since its launch in 2010, but I didn’t dare. I had already reached an uncomfortable quota for self-importance in hanging out my cyber-shingle as a professional artist. I struggled under the demands of domestic life to flesh out a portfolio so as not to feel a fraud.

To then find sufficient nerve to publicly write about those experiences or my puny perspectives was too much. I’m still not sure I read enough to claim the privilege of writing. The imbalance recalls that party guest who talks far more than he or she listens, and I’ve never wanted to be that person; I’ve listened long to fools just to avoid it.

Six years later, I dare to write.

Every petty fear I’ve fostered and fed drones on, in a bid to drown out quiet encouragement. Anyone wired for acceptance and approval is familiar with these taunts; they are the unoriginal, dull voices of doubt and scarcity. They can be persistent enough to nag most into extended procrastination, but they are manageable.

More challenging are the louder, more ruthless bullies, the psychological echoes of experiences that undermined one’s self worth. Those voices will dissect and dissemble confidence with precision. They’ll mingle with and then exploit vulnerabilities. They will cleave memories into pieces and leave a person emotionally disenfranchised, unsure of which recollections and sentiments are safe to pick up, and share.

I am exposing myself to both legitimate, valid criticism and bullies, real and imagined. I greet them now, however, with a mixture of acceptance and indifference, rather than panic. Cruel critics are constants; the people who believe it’s erudite and entertaining to be unkind. There will always be small men who feel empowerment in imposing pain and humiliation.

They are consumers in this world, so incapable of generating anything genuine that they must prey on the lovers, the givers and the creatives. In terms of the visual elements of design and of spirit, they are just negative space. Defined by lack and emptiness. Subordinately unimportant relative to the positive. Simply something to push out against.

I once made the error of believing I needed to distinguish myself before earning the right to author anything, but now I find license in recognizing those parts of my journey that are in essence, indistinguishable from fellow travellers’. Those include real risk, self-doubt, shame and failure. It’s easier to endure those jagged bits, when comforted by the certain knowledge that they can be wrapped in a soft empathy.

The positive is regenerative. That is a creative force cheap criticism cannot smother or otherwise diminish.

So, I will reach in solidarity with so many imperfect, striving, healing, learning souls pushing out against that negative space, and create, however opportunity allows.