Hot Water

“I’m modest,” Dad says in his dressing gown, crossing his arms around his shrugged shoulders when I offer to help him into his bath.

Instead, I listen from down the hall, nervous, as he climbs in and then out.

“I’m not an old man yet!” he says when I tell him he’s on the waitlist for the local elderly bathing facility.

It’s time I put my Warden foot down, and inform him that bath day is now Friday so that Nicol can help him get in and out.

I’ve been avoiding it.


“Are you okay?” I ask, checking in on him after the hard work of getting dressed is complete.

“I’ll never be okay again,” says Dad rolling his walker out of his room.

The last time I was at the farm, Dad had a cold and fell out of his chair while getting up to go to the doctor.

“I thought you had dropped dead,” said Mum as we leaned over his frail frame tucked into a ball for the drop and roll.

“He can’t be that hurt” said Mum to me, “He’s tickling my leg,” as we picked him up off the floor.

“I’ve made some decisions,” he says as I lay with him on my next visit, “I’m not going to church anymore.”

I ask him why.

“I’m too unsteady on my feet,” he says, “I didn’t fall on my ass this much when I was drinking a bottle of scotch a day.”

I don’t give him a hard time. Hopefully, he’ll feel differently in the morning.


“Don’t be sad when I go,” he says, “I’ve had a good run.”

My nightmares have returned. In them, Dad is dying and I’m helpless.

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Bring It On

“Read this aloud,” says Dad, eyes lit up and pointing an obituary cut out from the paper and taped to the wall beside him.

“This was Dad’s favourite poem:” it begins.

Taeja, my niece, has mentioned a poem Dad asks her to read aloud when she passes through the room.


Home for the weekend, it’s my turn to perform.

“Oh the whiskey was spilled on the bar-room floor

And the bar was closed for the night.

A little grey mouse came out of his hole in the floor

To dance in the pale moonlight.

He lapped up the whiskey on the bar-room floor

And back on his haunches he sat.

And all through the night, you could hear him roar,

“Bring on the goddamn cat!”

I laugh while reading the last line. Dad’s ready and waiting to join me.

The next morning, I listen from bed as Lynn and Taeja’s boyfriend, James, take their turns reading the poem aloud in the other room. And like me, I hear them each break into a laugh while reading aloud the final line. Dad joins in right behind them.

It hits me, Dad’s joy at witnessing a joke trigger laughter in another person.

A comedic storyteller, he respects and appreciates the man and his family who chose to inspire laughter at a time of loss and grief.


“You’ve got to keep your sense of humour,” says Dad.

He works hard to keep his.

So bring on the goddamn cat!



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A Dry Run

A 1 800 number rings my cell phone as I’m getting ready for work in Vancouver.

I’m tempted not to answer, but I do.


“A elderly man has pushed his Lifeline alarm and is reporting a possible heart attack,” says the woman, “The ambulance has been called and is on the way over there.”

I swallow hard. Oh my God, is this it?


“I’m on my way over now,” says Mum when I call her in Brentwood Bay.

I forget having put her on the emergency contact list, but am relieved I did.

I hang up and wait, unsure if I should catch the bus to work or to the float plane.


“He’s joking and telling old stories to Jim Hume’s son,” says Mum from the farm.

Leave it to Dad to be old drinking buddies with the paramedic’s journalist father and to be making jokes while having a possible heart attack.

I take the bus to work.

“Dad says he’ll happily stay a month,” says Mum calling from the hospital.

He likes the cute nurses.

Walking home from work, I finally talk to Dad, who is back at home and reunited with his animals and his comfy chair.


“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Every day you’re alive is a beautiful day,” he replies.

The false alarm has reminded us of finite time, but it has also left us oddly reassured.

When Dad got scared, he knew how to call for help. And help came like gangbusters.

“You should get one of these things too,” says Dad to Mum pointing at the Lifeline button on his wrist, “All hell breaks loose when you press it.”

Thanks Lifeline.

Dad and I sleep better knowing you’re there for him when I can’t be.

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“KKKKatie, beautiful Katie, you’re the only ggggirl that I adore,” sings Dad rolling his walker towards the living room chair beside me.

“When the mmmoon shines over the cow shed, I’ll be waiting at the kkkkitchen door.”

As a child, I made loud noises of protest each time he sang me this song.

Today, I feel nothing but love.


“For that, will you be coming to church with me on Sunday?” he asks.

Sneaky bugger, I laugh and pretend to grumble.


“KKKKatie, beautiful Katie,” sings Dad from bed as I’m walking back to my room from a three am pee.

I laugh in the darkness.

“Nigel and Emmy are here with me,” he says, fishing for a visit.

Finite time, I turn around and head to his room. As I climb into bed, the shih tzus scatter.


“I know,” says Dad to the dogs, “She’s big, isn’t she?”

We lay in silence.

“No, she doesn’t take up that much room,” he says, “She’s still my little girl.”



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Memory Test

On Friday, February 27th, I take Dad to the doctor for his biannual memory test.

The purpose of the test is to determine if the Canadian government should continue funding the costly memory medication. He needs to score low enough to demonstrate diminished capacity but not to fall so low as to be considered too far gone.

As I believe this medication has been successful at slowing Dad’s memory loss, it is an important test.


The doctor asks, “What’s the date today?”

Dad says, “I’m not sure. It’s March, isn’t it?”

“What day of the week is it?”

“I don’t know,” says Dad.

“What season is it?”

“It’s the beginning of fall, isn’t it?” says Dad.

“What floor are we on?”

“This one,” says Dad.

The doctor laughs and says, “I’m not sure how to score that one.”

He then tells Dad to remember three words for later: apple, table, penny.

Next, he hands Dad a pen and paper and asks him to write a sentence.

Dad pulls back his arms and looks defiant. He says that he’s never had good handwriting and that it isn’t about the dementia. The doctor reassures him and Dad writes a sentence. He goes for a complex sentence rather than a simple subject, verb, object and gets confused halfway through.

“What were the three words I told you before?” asks the doctor.

“Apple, table,” says Dad, “I can’t remember the other one.”

Impressed, the doctor hands him a new piece of paper. This one has a large circle on it.

“Draw a clock,” says the doctor.

Dad draws lines on the circle like a knife cutting up pieces of pie, and asks, “Is this what you mean?”

The doctor clarifies and Dad starts again.

He writes the number one at the top of the circle and then continues along the inner edge finishing with the number twelve where the number seven is meant to be.

The doctor looks at me and I feel a lump in my throat.

We take the scenic route home, stopping in front of the driveway of his old bachelor pad, The Swamp, on the old Pat Bay Highway.

And the stories begin.



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85 and Still Kicking

Dad chokes on the phone when I tell him I’ll be taking him to church on Sunday.

“That’d be a very good birthday present for me, dear,” he says afterward, “I’d really enjoy that.”

The last day of January 2015, Dad and I are spending another exciting Saturday night watching the Murdoch Mysteries on TV.

“Am I turning 85 tomorrow?” asks Dad.

He hadn’t planned on making it past 81, so he’s well chuffed with himself.

Sunday morning, Dad shouts for me to answer the phone while I’m in the shower. Mum’s calling from England.

“She called to talk to me, not you,” says Dad when I ask him later if she’s going to call back.


“The roof might come down when you enter the church,” says Dad on our way to the car.

“The roof seems to be holding up okay,” he says looking up at the little, old church ceiling from his back corner pew.

The service begins.

Dad drops his cane on the floor and makes a loud noise. I look at him and he holds out both hands like a child would his mother under the threat of trouble. Then, he starts looking around and practically whistles as if he has no idea what I’m looking at him for.

We stand and sit as the hymns and prayers dictate.

The pastor straps on a sweet acoustic guitar and the congregation sings ‘Happy birthday’ to Dad.

He looks awkwardly touched by the sudden attention, but then joins in on the last line.

“Happy birthday to me,” he sings and then adds, “Thank you very much.”


When communion comes, I walk with Dad down the aisle. On our way back, the congregation watches as Dad takes advantage of the opportunity to hug and kiss all the ladies on his way back down the aisle.

Almost at the end, a man stands and hugs and kisses Dad on the cheek, erupting laughter in the whole place.

I burst into tears, the joyful kind.

We sing a final hymn, one of his favourites. And I envy his faith.


Go Now In Peace…Never Be Afraid.

God Will Go With You Each Hour Of  Every day.

Go Now In Faith, Steadfast, Strong And True.

Know He Will Guide You In All You Do.

Go Now In Love, And Show You Believe.

Reach Out To Others So All The World Can See.

God Will Be There, Watching From Above.

Go Now In Peace, In Faith, And In Love.

Amen, Amen, Amen.


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Ready to Die

“I’m having Christmas with my family like I do every year,” says Dad, playing the dementia card for dramatic effect as he knows full well the family is all away this year.

“With my daughter,” he adds, another set up followed by a long pause for his pending punchline.

“Jessica,” he says, referring to one of Barbara’s girls who has invited him to Christmas dinner.

The joke reassures me he’s not upset about my absence over the holidays.

“Say hello to Elizabeth for me,” he says when I call to check in, “and keep the Senior Warden out of trouble.”


Tywardreath, Cornwall

“Are you talking on the phone?” Henry asks pointing at my laptop.

“I’m writing stories,” I say.

“She’s probably writing stories about us,” says Mum.

“You can call it, ‘Ready to Die,’” says Henry.

I met Henry and Eva on my first trip to England with Mum in 1988. Mum’s first cousin had worked for Cadbury’s for 10 years, but was running his own fudge factory out of his garage by the time I met him. A gentle giant and his tiny dynamo wife, I loved them instantly.

“They’re very old then,” says Henry about friends of Mum.

“About old like us,” replies Mum.

“You mean nearly dead?” asks Henry.

After Sam died at 17, absenteeism had me out of high school and working as a waitress at a late night pizzeria for the after-bar clientele in Victoria. I remember counting tips on my boyfriend’s mattress on the floor of our first apartment together, saving up for my third trip to Europe.

In 1994, I flew to England by myself for three months taking buses and trains to stay with various family members and friends in England and France. Henry and Eva were a particular highlight.

I remember Henry at the railway station smoking a cigarette by his car, a habit we pretended to keep secret from Eva, but which ignited a camaraderie of slipping away to smoke fags together in the fudge factory, essentially erasing the 44 year age gap between us.

During my stay, I read every Eva Taylor romance novel I could get my hands on. Eva, a former English and History teacher, has published 43 novels; the best part, according to Eva, were the hoots of laughter she shared with her friend Ellen brainstorming ideas for romantic folly.

The last time I saw Eva and Henry was at their golden wedding anniversary in 2005. Pub crawls, bowling, boats and hot air balloons, the event climax was a dinner in a big white tent in their’s son’s back garden in Bath, complete with touching speeches and the bride in her original wedding dress fifty years later.

“Getting old is no fun,” says Henry.

“Don’t do it!” he adds pointing at me.

Now in their mid-eighties, Henry and Eva are coming to the end of their fairy tale lives together. A diamond anniversary approaching this summer, memory and other health problems no longer make living on their own a responsible option.

“I need a shave,” says Henry walking towards the stairs.

“I’m traveling by machine,” he says as the stair lift carries him up to the second floor.

On our way to celebrate our latest reunion with a night out at the indian restaurant, Eva walks around the house with one shoe in hand unable to find its match. Next is the inexplicable disappearance of her hat and gloves. Once sorted and in the car, it takes Henry a good five minutes for the key to find the ignition. Driving in the dark, down the narrow curvy cornish lanes, Henry says he’s going to pack in the driving when the insurance runs out. Mum and I both agree it’s probably for the best.

“You can’t open a book without seeing the word dementia these days,” says Eva regularly.

At the restaurant, Eva decides on the chicken masala before remembering that she doesn’t want chicken due to a program she watched on the tele. She reads the menu again and chooses the chicken masala again before remembering she doesn’t want chicken due to a program she watched on the tele. And so it goes several more times before the server arrives to take our order. Eva tries the spicy pickles with the pompadoms and though they are too spicy for her the first time, she puts a large spoonful in her mouth, almost defiant, when we warn her that she’s already tried it and didn’t like it. I move the bowl out of her sightline as she coughs on the heat.

As the days go on, Eva is plagued by an anxious restlessness. She doesn’t remember where the dishes belong, finds random things like a piece of cake or a boiled egg in random cupboards and drawers. Nervous of sell by dates, she throws the frozen turkey in the bin several times before it’s finally fished out to cook for supper.

Only three activities calm her during our visit: walking, knitting dishcloths and drinking wine. Our bond is forever secured when I pull out my own needles and we knit dishcloths over wine across from each other.

“I don’t think we lose whatever we decide,” says Henry, “but Eva is not keen on Tregany.”

Henry too is struggling. He is quick to forget, but not as quickly as Eva. With an old man shuffle, he checks on her if she’s gone off on her own too long. After decades of this little woman caring for him and leading the way, Henry doesn’t have the skills or the strength to take over for Eva now. He’s anxious for outside support such as the nearby assisted living home in Tregany, but is too loyal to Eva to go against her wishes.

“She was a terrible teenager but she’s turned into a lovely woman,” says Henry, “She takes care of us.”

Their daughter Julie has moved south temporarily to help them transition into the final stages of life. I am reminded of the sadness, fear and conflict that comes when roles reverse and elderly parents are faced with the ultimate surrenders of independence and life. Some, like Henry, let go easily, while others, like Eva, fight against the dying of the light.

“Sometimes I feel cross,” says Eva when we talk of old age and death.

My last night in Cornwall, I hear the escalating emotion in Eva’s muffled voice from the other room. She doesn’t want her beautiful life to change. But it already has.


Solihull, West Midlands

“It’s Rob’s birthday today,” says Mum’s cousin, Flo, when she picks us up at the Birmingham railway station.

Rob is 93 years old. He still drives and goes golfing three times a week. So does his wife, Flo, who is 83.

Their home is a time capsule. Though they’ve both faced serious health concerns and look a few years older than I remember, nothing of any great significance has changed. They are still actively engaged and sharp as knives.

“Rob’s off to see the other woman,” says Mum as Rob gets up from his chair and heads for the stairs.

The other woman is a long running joke I remember from when I was 12: his computer.

“Katie says you’re reading a thick book on Python programming,” says their daughter, Carol, over balti in Birmingham.

“Yes, it’s a thick one,” says Rob, “But not as thick as I feel reading it.”

Rob gets the program running during our visit. He is absolutely not thick.

“Did you mention your age?” asks Mum when Rob hangs up his call to the heating repair company.

It didn’t cross his mind to exploit his age for special treatment.

“I can get out the zimmer and slouch over when they get here if you think it’d help,” laughs Flo.

(A zimmer is a walker in British.)

“It’s important not to rush into these types of decisions,” laughs Kristin over Skype, “You and Rob were looking into retirement housing when I was there over twenty years ago!”

As the days go by, Flo cooks and Rob deals with the dishwasher. They each have their daily tasks and Mum and I are not allowed to take them over. They have a housecleaner that comes once every couple of weeks but the day to day work of living helps keep them going.

“Rob will move the second Carol tells him to,” says Flo, reassuring us that they’ve made the necessary arrangements for when the time capsule breaks.

Bless their cotton socks.


Menston, Yorkshire

“I haven’t seen you since you were this big,” says Grace, Henry’s older sister, 86, holding her hand at the height of a small child.

Grace never knew me as a child. She doesn’t remember who I am. She’s graciously trying to protect my expectant eyes from her dementia.

Grace now lives in a very nice assisted living facility near her daughter’s home.

“You look just the same!” says Grace touching my shoulder an hour later over fish and chips and friendly conversation.

She still doesn’t remember me, but at least I now feel familiar.

A game of memory, Grace points at the photos on her bedroom wall and lists the names of her children, scoring three out of four.

“I don’t remember who that is,” says Grace pointing at a black and white photo of a young man, “but I think it must be my husband.”

“I haven’t seen them in years,” says Grace of family, which isn’t true but must feel that way when the past erases itself so quickly from the mind’s view.

“It must be hard to let go after so many years of marriage,” says Grace’s daughter, Briony, of Eva and Henry.

“I don’t know,” says Mum, “I found 12 years to be more than enough.”

We laugh and talk about Dad.

“Oh yes,” says Grace happily surprised at home that night, “I’m Briony’s mother!”

“Thank God we had daughters,” said Eva to Mum when we were in Cornwall.

In my family and perhaps the world, there is an obvious trend.

“Je n’ai jamais l’occasion de parler français,” replies Grace with elegant ease when I speak to her in French.

“Comment s’appelait ton copain en Suisse?” I ask remembering her late night stories over wine about love, war and life when my younger self used to visit.

Her face goes blank. Her fluency stalled. I scold myself for getting tricky by speaking French.

“I can’t remember his name,” says Grace, “Isn’t that terrible?”

I scold myself again, this time not for speaking French, but for asking a question that requires an answer dependent on memory. Language is not the problem.

“But you’re still you, Grace,” I say when she complains about her memory.

“Oh yes, I still know who I am,” she replies and then pauses.


“Now,” says Grace getting up to go to bed, “where am I?”

I smile.

“No really,” she says calmly, “I don’t know where I am.”


Saanichton, BC

“He was a long suffering father,” says Dad pretending to read the obituaries.

I took the ferry to the island from the airport without stopping to see my husband in Vancouver first.

“This one’s too long,” Dad says pointing at an obituary the length of the newspaper.

“I’ll just read the name,” he says honouring the fallen.

I drink tea and pay overdue bills beside him.

“Survived by his wife of 60 years,” he reads and then adds, “Even a murderer gets out in 20.”

My eyes are heavy. Jet lag sets in.

“Four and a half hours until bedtime,” says Dad looking at his watch.


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