A Love like No Other

Throughout these months of my father's devastating illness, my mother has maintained a steadfast belief in his recovery. In the days and weeks following the cardiac arrest and the catastrophic ensuing events, my mother remained at this bedside, holding his hand, caring for him, documenting every sign of improvement, celebrating every tiny victory and reminding Dad that he promised they would live together forever. We all prayed for God's healing touch. Every night, Mom begged God to heal him. And to us, she'd state she couldn't live without Dad.
My parents have been married just shy of 50 years. They met at church, when he was a penniless student, and she was starting her nursing career. My parents never really talked much about their courtship when we were young. The story of how my dad took her for a walk to a cafe for their first date where they shared a glass of orange juice (very expensive in post war Korea, my dad always pointed out) varied a little with each re-telling. My mother's family was dead set against the idea of her marrying a student, and only son of a widow when there were more attractive prospects for my mother. My dad persisted though. He was a dreamer and an idealist. So even though he was leaving for Canada on a scholarship, he asked my mother to marry him. As per tradition, he also asked her parents, three times, for my mother's hand in marriage. And was flatly denied three times.
With a plane ticket in his hand, my mom and dad got married, aided by my paternal grandmother. The ceremony was moved up by an hour so my maternal uncles couldn't stop the wedding. Dad got on his plane and the wedding feast with an absent groom was held.
My parents started this marriage separated by an ocean. Mom immigrated to Canada two years later. Dad earned his Master's degree from the University of Windsor, and I was born a few days after the convocation ceremony.
Over the years, they added three more children to their family. My paternal grandmother lived with us, helping to care for us and parent us. Throughout their marriage, my parents were separated by distance. My dad took on teaching positions in St. John's, Halifax, and Korea. We remained in Windsor, and saw Dad when he was visited monthly. Then he decided to answer God's call and studied theology at the University of Toronto. And during his career in ministry, there was more separation when Dad took on a pastoral charge in Vancouver.
Throughout these separations, my parents' marriage remained strong. I have no doubt it was difficult for my mother, raising children whilst working full time as a nurse. My grandmother certainly was an integral part of our lives, caring for us, waking us, walking us to school when mom's shifts prevented her from being present at home.
As difficult as those years must have been, these past 12 weeks have been, understandably, the most trying for mom. Every week, she has had to adjust her visions for the future. In the beginning, it was enough to be grateful Dad was still with us. We believed he would recover and come home in a few weeks. Then we learned about the anoxic brain injury, and worried about paralysis. Mom's expectations adjusted. Life with a wheelchair if he was paralyzed was envisioned. She pictured herself wheeling Dad in autumn to meet his newest grandchild. Then we learned he had lost his eyesight. Dad loved to read. Mom's dreams once again adjusted to take on this challenge.
Dad had a tracheal tube inserted. We adjusted to a future where we wouldn't hear his voice. More heartbreaking was the knowledge that Dad would never sing again.
When it became clear the brain injury affected his ability to swallow and a feeding tube was required, Mom took this in stride, wallowing in her disappointment only briefly. As in many families, our celebrations revolved around big family dinners, late midnight snacks, and relishing a good bottle of wine. It was more important that Dad was still with us. Living out their retirement at home or a condo once again adapted to one in a nursing home or long term care facility.
His spirit and determination to recover remained as steadfast as Mom's. Dad never once complained of, or indicated he was in pain. But the various infections proved too much for Dad's weakened state. The medical doctors counselled on the grim prognosis.
Mom struggled to accept and finally make the decision to pursue palliative care for Dad last week. His wish was to come home. Understandably tormented, there were many many tear filled conversations amongst us. Unfortunately, Dad began to deteriorate before we were able to fulfill his wish. The doctors had warned us three days ago he only had hours to live, but he hung on.
As Dad lays in his hospital bed, his breathing labored, it's becoming evident we don't have much time left with him. His four children and his true love are gathered around his bed. We share our memories of Dad, gently tease each other, laughing and relishing the love.  Sometimes I'd think he's hanging on because he wants to be part of the fun.
We gather, and we gently clean him. Wiping off the sticky residue from the various bandages. Massaging lotion into his arms and legs, rubbing his feet. Shaving his face, smoothing cream onto his cheeks. Cleaning his mouth. Adjusting his bedding. Everything. We talk to him. We tell him we love him. We thank him for being the wonderful loving father and grandfather he has been. Though he grew up without a father, he tackled and conquered fatherhood, leaving us with a legacy and big shoes to fulfill as parents ourselves. Even now, we're learning of the special treats he would share with each child separately. I never knew, until a few days ago, that Dad would bring home chocolates for my youngest sister on the sly, and then hide the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can so no one, including Mom, would be none the wiser.
We cling to him, taking turns to hold his hand, stroke his forehead, gently massage his feet. But his response is only for mom. Only when Mom holds his hands and tell him she loves him, does he turn towards her voice and nods. I can't bear to watch.  The love between them is overpowering. Growing up, I hardly ever saw them display affection in public. Rarely did I see them hold hands. But there was never a doubt my parents loved each other with every fiber of their being. It was evident in their actions, their teasing and the sacrifices they made for each other.  My mother took up piano a few years ago, long after sacrificing to provide music lessons for all of us. Last year, my dad purchased a grand piano for her. So she could practice on the best.
I don't think Dad is ready to be parted from Mom, his life long partner.

Dad's Hands

My dad is in the ICU. A few weeks ago, we all thought he had a simple cold. None of us realized it was pneumonia nor the dangers it posed to my father who underwent a bypass surgery a couple of years ago.  Leaving the doctor's office with a prescription for antibiotics, my dad was overcome with weakness and could no longer stand. Passersby assisted by mother. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest ER. While being assessed, his heart stopped. My dad was resuscitated but he would go into cardiac arrest several more times. Each time, his will to survive and the medical team brought him back. By the time I was able to reach his side, he had stabilized. Nothing short of a miracle. He continued to hang on, and ever so slowly, his vital signs improved over the next 48 hours.
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring.  His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren. 
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.