 “On the home stretch.”
Paul wrote this to the doctor. “On the home stretch.” These words have a particularly poignancy when written by your dying spouse. I wonder what he imagines “home” to be. I’ve been thinking about the vanishing point in art. A road or path, stream maybe, that goes off into the distance will eventually seem to vanish. We know that it’s just perspective, that if we were to walk the path or the bank of that stream, that point would keep moving because the road goes ever on and on. We, stopped where we are, just can’t see it anymore. I imagine death being that point. The path, and Paul, will go on but we will be stopped here in this earthly place unable to see beyond the place of vanishing. But others will be there waiting. Paul’s mom and grandparents, his good friend Greg Johnson. We all know how this is going to end but it’s hard to fathom. And it will be harder when we go home without him. Already, before we even came to hospice, I missed saying good-bye. It was a ritual for Paul. Whenever I went out, even if I had already gone to wherever he was in the house and kissed him good-bye, he’d come to the door, kiss me again and stand there while I waited for the elevator. Whether I was going to work for the day or to yoga class for an hour, he said good-bye at the door. Paul had a ritual with Finn too. After Finn left, Paul would stand at the window and wait the few minutes it would take Finn to make it down the elevator or stairs and out the front door. As Finn hit the drive Paul would wave from the window and Finn would turn and wave back. They did this long past even high school, until Paul was in too much pain to move from the couch. Paul was not just like that with us. As the assistant manager of our high rise for many years, Paul paid attention. He knew everyone by name, suite number and often what car they drove. He helped people out. I used to tell him that he was like the pastor to the people of Vista Royale. We have neighbours from many different places and he made it a point of learning how to greet people in their own language of origin. Late in October I went to a retreat at IslandWood, a beautiful centre on Bainbridge Island near Seattle. It was a special time of discernment and retreat with the Center for Courage and Renewal. One morning as we were talking about mentors I had this realization that Paul has been one of my greatest mentors. I learned so much from him. He taught me to not take things so seriously. He taught me patience, although I may not have been a good student of that. He taught me perseverance. Most of all he taught me love. Every day when I left the house and he walked me to the door to kiss me good-bye, I knew I was loved. Just that. Everything else, all of the ways that he took care of us - laundry and meals and dishes and knowing what we needed and finding things we lost - reinforced what I knew when he stood at the door. He taught me how to be a loving presence by standing at the door as the elevator came. We can only watch as Paul will take the final steps to the vanishing point. We cannot go past the door to this world yet. But we’ve kissed good-bye and will wait with him while the elevator comes. Previous Paul posts Hard Snow Angel December Grey Care taking and care giving Sow's ear purse Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27. https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/ If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
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 January 7, 2017 The English language is so imprecise it’s a wonder we can communicate. I’m thinking of the word hard, how it means so many different things. It can mean really firm like the opposite of soft. It can mean with force, as in to push hard. It can mean difficult. But even then there are nuances. People comment that what we are going through with Paul must be so hard. I think they mean it’s yucky and you wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it’s not hard in the way that some things are hard. It’s not like, say, climbing a sheer rock cliff or trying to find a cure for some scorge-y new virus, something that you could actually fail at. This is what it is and you just live through it. Is it heartbreaking? Yes. Is it wearying? Yes. Are there moments when you don’t know what to do in the face of your beloved's real physical pain? Yes. But ultimately we are not called to solve this, just to be together with it. Someone commented that this must challenge my faith, but I can honestly say it does not. If anything I have felt accompanied. Just when what we have needed the most was love and prayers, we have received notes, good wishes, prayers and healing energy from hundreds of people. Every day someone reaches out to let us know they are thinking of us. We are fed by many, both literally and spiritually. If God is about love and grace and full tummys then God is abundant. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of “why us?” For years I worked in outreach ministry where I met many people who lived rough, who had abused their bodies with drugs and alcohol and bad eating. Heck addiction runs rampant in my family and I have relatives who are homeless addicts. Have I wondered why one of them didn’t get sick? Yes. But only in curiosity. I know that the answer to why me is “why not you?” January 11 Paul and I have had a fairy tale marriage. And by fairy tale I mean the real kind, not the Disney versions. I mean the kind that have hardship and obstacles, moments of clarity and truth, wonder and disappointment. And an ogre. This is the kind that doesn’t necessarily come with a happy ending. But there is a glimmer of beauty in the beast of this. It is the community that has rallied around to support Paul. It is the dozens of written accolades that we have received and many, many, many more thoughts, prayers, good wishes and lovely memories we have been sent. Anne Lamott wrote about a her friend Carol who threw her own memorial party before she died. It was a community gathering where people ate and danced and passed around her friend’s brand new grandbaby. That’s not going to happen for us. Instead Paul’s music friends are staging a tribute show. Local bands will be playing his songs and covers of music that he loved. It will be a big party which he will, unfortunately, miss. Paul is past the stage of being at a rock show and it’s unclear at this point whether he will even be with us in earthly form by the time it rolls around. January 13 Of course it’s Friday the 13th. Of course it is. I am exhausted and breaking apart. Part of me can hardly believe that this thing is even happening, that it will happen. And part of me thinks let’s just get it over with. Both awful. Both real. I got a note from someone, absolutely lovely and well meaning, in which he says that he kind of understands what I’m going through because a favorite uncle with whom he was close had been in hospice before dying. And I think how is that the same as losing a spouse? Even as I understand. And I want to scream and rail because my auntie, the one with whom I was most close died in the middle of this shit-hole Twilight Zone of a situation and I missed it. I missed the chance to be with her as she shifted. And I missed gathering with the family to mourn. And while up until now I have been totally fine with knowing that, suddenly I am angry. WTF This evening Paul wrote me a note. Since he hasn’t been able to talk much, which has been almost since he first went to palliative care in October, writing has been a big piece of communicating. The note said, “did my loss of glassesss ruin ruin my ring and therefore my my glasses?” It took him a long time to write this and I could see the shape of the question as it emerged. As soon as he got to the part about lost glassesss I knew that I had to decide how I would respond. I didn’t want to say “That makes no sense.” or “What are you talking about?” which would only serve to point out to him that something was amiss in his question. So I answered with straightforward honesty. “I don’t know, Honey” I said. “I don’t know the answer to your question.” Previous Paul posts Snow Angel December Grey Care taking and care giving Sow's ear purse Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27. https://www.facebook.com/events/142485816232915/ If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar   The last time I remember having a sustained cold snap like this was 20 years ago. That was the year Finn was born. In the days leading up to his birth, Paul and I watched cars maneuvering up and down the hill outside our condo, commenting on their progress in the ice and snow. “Oooh. That SUV is not going to make the turn. It’s going too fast. . . .and into the stop sign.” Paul had a gig the night Finn was born. I had stayed home and, in a fit of pregnant nesting, was making chocolate truffles. My water broke as Paul crawled into bed in the early hours of December 20th. It was two weeks earlier than the doctor had pegged as due date. As advised I called the perinatal unit to let them know. The nurse on the line told me to come in and get checked out then go home until birth time. I told her I was not going to drive across town in 3 feet of snow and then drive home again only to drive back later. I would come when I was ready. She was not happy about it but what could she do? As it turned out, my labour kicked in at three minute intervals from the start so we left right away any ways. Twenty years. I can still remember watching Paul sitting at the night darkened window with infant Finn in his arms, our little snow angel. Lit only by the coloured Christmas lights, they bounced gently on a large exercise ball, watching the snowy world outside. So precious. Paul started teaching Finn music even before he was born, singing and playing guitar to my growing belly. And it carried on when he was born. I have a vivid image of tiny infant Finn lying on his back listening to Paul play guitar. As Paul played Fernando Sors’ Variation on a theme of Mozart’s the Magic Flute, Finn would rock gently side to side cooing to the music. Then Paul would switch to rock music and Finn would laugh, his little arms and legs dancing wildly in the air. It was both funny and a joy to watch.  Now they sit together on Paul’s hospital bed watching their beloved Habs games. Finn, who used to fit into Paul’s forearm, is nearly twice Paul’s size now. Finn has grown a lot in 20 years and Paul has shrunk in the past several months, pretty literally now just skin and bone. The other day when I came into Paul’s room, he was napping on the bed and Finn napping on the little pull out hide-a-bed chair beside him. It reminded me of one of my favorite early pictures of them sleeping together in the big bed. There are so many pictures of the two of them. They were always together. Paul was the at-home parent and took Finn with him everywhere. He would settle Finn into the snuggly and off they’d go, Paul talking and singing to Finn the whole time. Later we joked that Paul had taught Finn to speak too well. Finn talked a lot once he got going. When Finn was little, he and his dad spent hours sitting in the park across the street from the little fire hall near our place. They’d sit with their juice boxes and snacks, watching the firefighters wash the trucks and check equipment. They tore that hall down when Finn was about seven. Paul wandered over there and told one of the demolition workers about this favorite pastime. He wondered if there was a brick or something that he could take for Finn. The worker told him to wait a minute and walked back through the rubble. When he returned he handed Paul the station’s fire bell. We still have it. Christmas was quiet for us this year. Paul came home for a few hours. Finn had bought his dad a simple model fire truck for Christmas, something they could build together in an afternoon. As they sat at the dining table with all of the pieces spread out, Finn read the instructions, something his dad would have done for him when he was little, and they pieced it together. Paul is quite shaky now from pain medication and it was lovely and tender watching Finn help his dad cut apart the pieces and snap them together.  Paul has never been chatty and now he can hardly speak. Much of his communications is done through writing. But the boys don’t seem to need to say too much to each other. Sometimes Finn just sits and holds Paul’s hand and it seems to be enough. Twenty years feels like a long time. But it’s not really enough time for a boy to know his father. This is too soon. Finn is just coming to the time when adulthood starts to shift how we relate to and understand our parents. As much as I will miss Paul, I cry more when I think of Finn’s loss. Even so I know that Finn will be ok, ultimately. We both will. Shortly after Paul came to this hospice, Finn video messaged us from home. He filmed as he walked from our condo down the stairwell and out to the side yard where the snow was deep and pristine. He lay on the ground and, as we watched, made a snow angel. Previous Paul posts |
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