He was diagnosed with bowel cancer over ten years ago and in that time endured a few minor strokes but recovered quickly, had glaucoma, and in the last three years walked with a frame. His second wife of 20 years was an alcoholic and this contributed to her death in November of last year.
My father had a relatively strict Roman Catholic upbringing; mostly in the absence of his father who was at sea, served 7 years in the British army (1939 - 1947), and worked as a labourer for most of his life.
We were never really close and I spent most of my childhood witnessing the consequences of his drinking on my mother... she died in 1985 after enduring 6 years of Alzheimer's. In contrast, my mother was raised in catholic convents until she was 15, she had a very simple and positive outlook on life and although she wasn't an active catholic, she held her beliefs close to her heart. She wasn't just a Mum - she was a wonderful human being that liked art, loved music, and loved to laugh.
Just before Christmas, and living in Canada, I knew it wouldn't be long before I would be visiting my dad. Circumstances beyond my control prevented me from seeing him earlier, and so I made plans to see him in January. He was a very practical man and was never really one for accepting gifts of any kind. However, I wanted to take him something comforting and meaningful.. something that he'd keep hold of and not something he could immediately dismiss as being a 'waste of time'.
I thought long and hard about what I could possibly get him. Eventually, after lighting a candle for him at St Joseph's Roman Catholic church in Edmonton, I visited a local Christian shop and bought him a silver cross... nothing ornate or decorated... just a plain and simple cross. I considered it a risk... he could so easily turn to me and say "What's the bloody hell is this for??" and leave it at the back of the draw with his collection of broken pens and nuts and bolts. I thought to myself... I have no idea how he is going to react.. but if this cross gives him a fraction of comfort... just 0.1% of something, then it would have been worthwhile... it would have been meaningful to him and me. The cross would have reminded him that he was not truly alone.
When January came along, I received news that he'd fallen and broken his hip and that my visit to England would be spent visiting him at hospital, getting into small talk, and looking at my watch. It sounds harsh... but it's reality. We never really got on too well as father and son and his situation wouldn't make much difference to that truth at all.
Finally, I got to the hospital with my son and daughter and presented the cross to him: "Look dad... I got you this in Canada... it's a decent one... I had it blessed... feel the weight of it."
My dad sat up as far as he could, despite the near blindness from glaucoma, despite the discomfort and pain and despite the haziness of the drugs he'd been administered. I could see in his eyes that this little silver cross had far far greater meaning to him than I could ever have assumed it would.
We spoke fleetingly, little reassurances without the pretence, man to man, father to son as it so easily could have been for the absent years previously. After two weeks we said goodbye, I returned to Canada, and among the trials and tribulations that followed, something kinda wonderful happened amidst the chaos of the time.
My daughter, my son-in-law, and my ex-wife were my dad's only visitors during this time and on being discharged from hospital, he spent one week in a private nursing home where he had 100 pounds ($200) stolen from his side cabinet. There was nothing we could do.. it's not uncommon and is almost expected. But this man who was very 'careful' with his money throughout his life, who would have been outraged at the theft of his money at any other time, was completely unconcerned... just as long as he had his cross.. and he clung to it in his final hours and it brought him immense comfort.. that's all that mattered to him now.
On the night before he died, my daughter was with him and he told her: "Look... I am dying... I am telling you this because I don't want you here to witness it... they (the hospital) will phone you and tell you 'you're granddad is drawing his last breath...' or 'we really do think you should come to he hospital to say goodbye'. If that happens... don't come down here! He died the following morning.
I arrived in England two days later and made arrangements for the funeral that would be very small, simple, practical. He would have wanted people to spend money on keeping food and juice on the table rather than to buy flowers and cards. There were maybe half a dozen people attending at the crematorium. We had a short catholic service with 'I am here Lord' and 'Amazing Grace' playing in the background.
My daughters and I accidentally retraced a walk along the Liverpool docks that my dad would take me on when I was a child... it wasn't something I had intended, we just got off the train a stop before we should have. We caught the Mersey Ferry, and at exactly 4.20pm and halfway across the river, we dispersed his ashes with a few red roses from the ferry's bow into the River Mersey as he had requested.
In clearing his house and belongings, I found something I never knew he kept. In the inside pocket of his jacket, he kept a Pope Paul prayer card and a small cross.. he'd had kept these close for most of his adult life and I never knew.
The silver cross I'd given him was returned to me and will one day be given to my son when he is old enough to look after it and maybe when he's at a point in his life when he understand's it's significance.
I wanted to share this because in this story there is something positive against the complexities of sadness, of estrangement, of despair and of suffering. It is the simplicity of the comfort that this cross brought to a man in his final hour.. something encouraging and meaningful.. something deep and binding between a father and his son.
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