Exactly 10 years ago today, my Dad passed away with our family huddled around his bedside. The space between his diagnosis and the moment he left us will forever be etched in my memory as a difficult and painful time but also a time of potent love, connection, acceptance, peace…and humour. It held space for all of it.

I wrote this blog 4 years ago and wanted to repost to remember and honour him today.

On Valentine’s Day just over 6 years ago, Dad was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. I sat with my parents when the oncologist gave us the news. My mom and I were crushed but the first thing Dad said was, "I'm just like Steve Jobs" with a grin on his face. That was Dad, always making light of the situation with his goofy sense of humour.

Nothing ever prepares you for that kind of news.

The finality of it was so surreal but by watching Dad react the way he did, I knew that together we would find a way to get through this.

Lesson #1: Life doesn't prepare you for anything but somehow with lightness, humour, and a healthy dose of tears you can get through anything.

So we drove back home to my parents after that and life as we knew it was gone.

Something had shifted in our family.

We lost our bearings. We were untethered. We were heartbroken and bracing against the pain that was only going to deepen in the days, weeks, months to come.

I decided to move in with my parents to help with Dad's care while the beautiful folks of Fraser Health came over once or twice a week to care for his medical needs, mostly to keep him comfortable.

Day by day we somehow found a new rhythm. Everything revolved around Dad's meds so we planned our lives around his schedule. What I remembered most about that time was how the seemingly insignificant moments became magnified - sitting with him during meals in the kitchen, hanging out in the living room doing nothing, watching Netflix by his side, giving him his meds at the prescribed times, helping him to and from the bathroom, listening to him breathe in his sleep when I was on night watch.

Those are the quiet moments I remember.

Their home had a revolving door of guests coming and going paying visits to Dad to share a laugh, a meal or quiet time to just be.

There was nothing to do but live and be grateful for the time we had left with him.

That was enough.

Lesson #2: When death is near, it forces you to savour the space between moments like never before.

When you hear that someone you love is going to die, you first go into complete denial…which is what happened to me. I kept thinking he could beat this, miracles can happen, it’s not his time yet. I went into solution mode. We all did. Everyone was sharing stories of how people they knew with cancer had miraculously gone into remission.

Dad was going to be one of the lucky ones.

I introduced Dad to my friend Barb who is a Reiki Master and I was convinced that she could heal him. My mom and I sat in the room during his session with Barb and I think we received as much healing as Dad did.

In the stillness of that room, I was overcome by a feeling of acceptance.

My body softened.

Lesson #3: Resistance is the doorway to acceptance. Acceptance is the home to peace.

Dad deteriorated quickly. The cancer had already spread to all his organs. One morning I noticed that his eyes had turned yellow from being jaundiced. His kidneys were failing. He was also slowly losing his motor functions unable to make his way to the bathroom on his own. The care aides were coming more frequently. It was happening way too fast. It was only March, a month after he was diagnosed.

The doctor said Dad would likely live until Christmas.

His soul had other plans.

He left us on March 26th.

That morning, our family huddled close in a little room in the Crossroads Inlet Centre Hospice in Port Moody. In the middle of that room was Dad's frail body gasping for his last breaths as he slowly crossed over into the world beyond this one. Dad was struggling. It seemed by the way he was taking in air that he wasn't yet ready to go. This lasted for a few hours. It was so painful to watch him struggle but that was all we could do. Wait. Thankfully, we had the director of the hospice come in from time to time to guide and support us through this painful transition.

But it was the last 15 minutes of his life that’s so vivid in my mind still.

I could tell Dad needed something from me. So I sat myself right beside him on his bed, put my hand on his chest and started to talk to him even though he was unresponsive at this point.

I realized in that moment that he wasn't ready to let go because we weren't ready to let him go. It was time to say goodbye even though every muscle in my body was in complete resistance. I wasn't ready, none of us were, but I surrendered.

The words that came out of my mouth after that were my last goodbye to Dad.

I told him that we deeply loved him and thanked him for all that he had given us.

I told him that we were going to miss him but we would be okay.

I told him that it was okay to leave us and let go.

Dad’s breath started to soften and get quiet. Despite the tears from family all around us, the room was still and peaceful.

Perhaps my senses were playing tricks on me but there was a warmth and glow in the room that felt like Love.

Moments later he took his last breath and he was gone.

Lesson #4: There is beauty and love in the darkest moment of death.

He was gone and yet he’s still around.

Let me explain.

There’s a story tied to that photo (above) of me and Dad that was taken a few weeks before he passed away.

I was at my parents making arrangements for Dad’s service at Oceanview. One of my tasks was to send them photos to be used for a slideshow at the service. I was sending photos from my phone, which was jamming up the WiFi because it was taking a long time. Suddenly, my brother yells from his room calling for my Mom.

All of us ran up there because he sounded so distraught. It turns out that while he was watching college basketball, his TV went blank and this photo ended up on his screen and stayed there until he turned his TV off in the evening, hours later.

We were dumbfounded.

I’ve asked techie friends and family for an explanation on how a photo on my phone could possibly end up on my brother’s TV and remain there for hours. No one could offer an explanation.

So what do I think?

I think it was Dad in spirit reminding us with his prankster humour that he’s still around.

My relationship to death changed after that.

My relationship to my Dad changed after that.

His physical body is not here but I feel his loving spirit.

Lesson #5: Death is not meant to be feared. It’s just a transition.