About ten years after H had arrived in Canada, her parents both followed; her father with his second wife, and her mother, still bitter about the divorce, alone. I never quite understood why, having more or less abandoned H at the tender age of 6, they had to follow her all the way across the Atlantic to be near her after she’d grown up and gone her own way. But H adored her father, who was very dashing in a Ronald Coleman kind of way. He was a bona fide hero, having fought with distinction in the Burma campaign during the Second World War, and he was very affectionate with his daughter in that off-hand, old-style Brit “dahling” kind of way. He and the second wife divorced after a few years in Canada, and he soon found a third wife and settled down in Hamilton, about 50 kms away from H.
Her mother, in the meantime, had found an apartment in North Toronto, from which she sallied forth regularly to criticize H, her life, her friends, and her husbands — both of them. Although H had very little liking for her mother, she felt obliged to keep an eye on her, making her part of Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations, introducing her to her friends. When I first arrived in Canada, I had a Toronto apartment quite close to H’s mother, and I used to see her frequently, as H would drop by whenever she took her out for coffee or a meal. About two years after I first met her, H’s mother began a slow descent into Alzheimer’s, until she became totally dependent on H.
To her great sorrow, and her mother’s unrelenting scorn, H never had any children. But her loss was to prove her mother’s gain; as she became more confused and child-like, H was a far more tender and forgiving caregiver to her than her mother deserved. After D had sorted out his marital affairs, and he and H bought a house in a village outside Toronto on Lake Ontario, H moved her mother into a private nursing home nearby. Every day, before and after work, H would visit the nursing home to wash and dress her mother, spoon-feed and read to her, coping with her querulous complaints and sanguine about her refusal to show any affection to her only daughter. She spent every weekend with H and D, which, to D’s great credit, he never seemed to mind, despite their guest’s difficult ways.
When her mother eventually died, H was devastated. She began beating herself up about her shortcomings as a daughter, agonizing over how to dispose of her mother’s ashes. She had left her job at the time, and was trying to start up a holistic nutritional practice, and she would come to visit me two or three times a week. I had taken a year’s sabbatical to finish my degree, and her business was slow in taking off, so we had the time to drink gallons of coffee while she berated herself and I made lunch. For years afterwards, H would remind me of the day when I suddenly lifted my head out of the fridge and roared “Fuck your mother’s ashes! Stick them in the garden shed until you feel like doing something with them, and just get on with your life!”
Fortunately, she forgave me. She also took my advice, and waited until some years later, when she scattered the ashes in a park by the lake where her mother had liked to walk.
H was a health fanatic, and, long before the current 100 mile fad, a great believer in eating local, all natural, free-range, no pesticide produce. She was also a terrific cook, had studied Cordon Bleu for fun, and could whip up a gourmet meal from fridge leftovers. We loved going to her house for dinner; not only would we be fed like game cocks, we could also count on a grand old knockdown, take-no-hostages barney about politics, religion, the environment, which usually meant H and I would wipe the floor with our respective spouses. We were always on the ‘left’ side of an argument, while the two contrarians invariably took the more socially conservative route, to their cost.
D, in particular, just liked to be contrary for the heck of it. He has a laconic — some might say smug — attitude to most things and he loved nothing more than poking H, sometimes to the point where she would break down in tears of rage because he was being so obtuse. There were times when The First Husband and I drove home thinking, uh-huh, that marriage is in trouble. But they seemed to settle down after a few years, mainly because H refused to let D get her all riled up any more.
Despite all her health fanaticism, H was a smoker, as was D. She had tried several times to give them up, but he kept puffing away, which was no help. Finally, she persuaded him they should try to do this together, and they did manage to quit smoking for a few years. But then they each began separately to sneak the occasional OP (other people’s ciggies) and they went back on the demon weed together for another few years, until they finally kicked the habit for good, about four years ago. H also gave up struggling to make a go of her business, and went back to working for someone else, while D retired early from his semi-government position. They were both keen sailors, and The First Husband and I enjoyed going on summer cruises with them on Lake Ontario. H wanted them to buy a bigger boat, so that they could do more cruising, and she also believed they should sell their house, while housing prices were sky-high, and move further away from Toronto, to where housing prices were still reasonable. She wanted to have money in the bank so they could travel; her step-siblings were scattered around the globe, and she had cousins in Abu Dhabi, Spain, and England that she wanted them to visit. But D, who was comfortable and didn’t like travelling, dug his heels in and refused to budge, although he went through the motions of looking at bigger boats and checking out houses. He always managed to find some fatal flaw, and H confessed to me that, if they were ever to make a move, she would have to move up her planned retirement date and make things happen herself. In the meantime, D confessed to The First Husband that he worried about them having enough money to ensure a comfortable old age for them both, especially as he feared H would get Alzheimer’s, like her mother.
Early last year, I began noticing that H had a hoarse quality to her voice, and I worried that she was back on the cigarettes again. When I broached the subject, she told me she had a chest infection that she just couldn’t shake, but she was seeing a doctor soon, who would probably put her on antibiotics. In March, she and D had to leave our annual Paddy’s Day party early, because she had a pain in her back and was feeling rotten, and she said her doctor was sending her to a respirologist to check her out for asthma. This continued for a few months, and every time I saw her, she looked thinner and more worn, which she put down to fretting over her cousin in London, who had been diagnosed with oral cancer. He was undergoing treatment, and she was planning to fly over to London to stay with him for a while, just as soon as she could get rid of her own chest infection.
We had an annual tradition, whereby on Canada Day, July 1st, D&H would sail over from their club to ours, we would have dinner and drinks on our boats and watch the fireworks, and they would sail back the following day. Last year, H was not feeling well enough to sail, so they came over by car. I had not seen H for a few weeks, and I was shocked by the little old lady who stepped out of the car. H had jet black hair, shot with dramatic white streaks, and I had never seen her without her signature scarlet lipstick. On this day, her hair was grey, she wore no lipstick, and she had a stooped, fumbling walk. But she reassured us that she had spoken to her specialist’s office the day before, and had been told her recent CAT scan was fine, so she knew she did not have “the dreaded Big C,” as she put it. Their thinking was that she had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) which she felt she could live with, although she would have to make certain lifestyle changes.
H was too ill to stay for the fireworks that evening, and they left almost immediately after dinner, of which she ate very little. As we were getting ready for bed that night, TFH said “I think she’s not telling us the whole truth,” which made me furious, because I had been wondering the same myself. But, the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that she would not keep something like this from me.
The next day I had a call from H, telling me she was about to leave work, because she had just received a call from the specialist’s office to say they had “misread” the CAT scan, and she should go to see her doctor immediately.
To be continued
I am really trying to keep it together as I read this series of posts. You’ve put me there, a fly on the wall, and it’s a little like going through the whole thing all over again with my dad, and with friends…
I’m so sorry, John. I guess I’ve been focused on trying to comfort myself and come to terms with my own loss and anger, and I did not think it might make others relive their own anguish.
Ah, lovely tobacco.
The most deadly and addictive drug known to man. Little tubes of contentment that are a comfort and a curse.
Yep. You know they’ll get you in the end, as they have others, but you keep on puffing. Cognitive dissonance run rampant. I had a forty fag a day habit myself long ago, but that was a time when you could smoke anywhere, with the possible exception of church. I remember stubbing out a fag as the doors to the operating theatre swung open to admit me for major surgery. I can’t see myself being a social bloody pariah now, standing outdoors in all weathers, just for a puff of something that’s going to kill me. But maybe I’m kidding myself …
i’m feeling my usual frustration at the difficulty in nailing down the diagnosis in this story. Had a co-worker with similar syptoms also go thru the undefined mystery illness that eventually was exactly what the rest of knew in our hearts was cancer…why does it always have to be so hard to sort out?
I hear you! And I have another friend who’s just gone through the same rigmarole … months and months before they finally came up with the correct diagnosis, and it’s too late.
Those small white tubes stuffed with cancer. Man, oh man. I had a 44 pack a day habit myself. Yeah, 44, I counted. Gone now for twenty+ years. I’ve never, ever seen anything good come out of smoking. It makes me scream and shake my fists at the sky. If we can quit, Tessa, anyone can. Hardest thing I ever did.
I’m so, so sad for H and her healthy living and her filthy tube stuck in the middle of it.
/Rant.
Sorry.
such a waste of life, I’ve lost so many friends…..
XO
WWW
Rant away, WWW, you’ll get no argument from me. Much to my horror, #1 Son smokes — unholy irony, since I kicked the habit for his sake, when I was pregnant with him. Ungrateful little bastard …
CORRECTION!!
NOT 44 packs, OMFG. NO a mere 44 cigs a day!!!!
Mere you say? Nothing mere about 44 fags a day. Although I was wondering about the 44 packs …
Oh no no no, not to worry — the anguish I spoke of (I should’ve made that clear) is several years in the past… my father’s, 20 years ago.
So it’s a rather soft sort of pain, blurred over time. I trust you’ll come to that point regarding H, too.
As you will see from the final instalment, John, the pain sharper than a serpent’s tooth is not caused by H’s death, but by what transpired thereafter. She’s a gentle ghost, and she brings me nothing but pleasure and fond memories.
It’s 20 years since my father died, too, and there’s seldom a day passes that I don’t think of him.