It has been almost twelve years since my father passed away, and the seasons continue to come and go. It is true what they say: it does get better with time (whatever your “it” may need to be). For the consistency of time can only be savored by the present just as much as our past thought of by the narrative of our memories. We must acknowledge all of it.

From age eleven to fourteen, the hospital was my second home. My father’s disposition gave him both the fortitude to endure three long years of metastatic cancer, and the genetic mutations of cancer itself. During the lingering moments of treatment, I was there with him: chemotherapy, doctor’s visits, and rendezvous with the charitable nurses who couldn’t help but spoil a child with cups upon cups of strawberry ice cream (I can never forget the taste of the wooden spoon after my final bite, nor the concurrent feeling of sadness and satisfaction).

Twelve years old. I wandered through the empty hallways of such a powerful building. Lives are saved here, I thought. I observed all that around me. I befriended the paintings, and the vending machines always knew what I needed. The white tiled floors, and the inspired ceilings would only reflect the truth. And while everything else was beautiful, my emotions were invariably too strong to face, my memories too vivid to slight. I sauntered back towards his room, sneaked passed the attending nurses, and sat on my cornered seat. Needing a reprieve, I pulled out my pencil and notebook and started to sketch.

I started with an outline of the room. It was well defined, sure, and easily linear. I drew the clock on the wall, the chair, the table, his bed. I tried to portray the room as I saw it. Its dim lighting allowed for rest, its functional spaces ready to remedy, and everything had its purpose. I shaded in the spaces that hinted disturbance, and, in my reclined comfort, awaited for the perfect expression. He was a loving father to his entire community, a great leader filled with passion and energy, but now,… his withering body, once strong and capable, seemed to be in peaceful agony. How did he turn the pain into joy? How could he lie there in serene suffering? And when I was done, I put my tools away and adventured into a different hospital wing.

Thirteen years old. I returned from another walk around the hospital and he whispered my name. I moved towards him. He said, “I need to pee”. Easy. This I have done before. Helping someone walk on their own two feet felt like the least I could do anyway. I gracefully reached for his IV-connected arms ready to bear the weight of his fragile body onto my own. He gently whispered again, “no”. His reluctant hand points towards the clear container hanging off the handles on his bed and I knew what this meant. He was too weak to move today. That’s okay. Tomorrow will be better. I picked up the container with two fingers and quickly handed it to him ready to rid the germs associated with any hospital experience. With saddened, regretful eyes, he looked into mine. “Can you help?” “Its okay,” he tried to convince both of us.

Fourteen years old. December 20th. The doctor called my mom and solemnly expressed the importance of being with my father this evening. In selfishness, my first thought was, "Finally, there are more people whose experiences could start to match the ones I have become so well acquainted with." But before the night was over, and after all the visitors have left, my faithful friends did something they have never done before. They walked into the room with pillows and blankets in hand. This night, distinct from all the rest, the entire family was allowed to sleep over.

We laid our matching gray blankets on the hard, speculative tiled floor, and after a long day, found ourselves fast asleep.

Four days before Christmas, December 21st. My mom awoke to my father’s final breath, a sense of release, the final token to admission. He was gone. We stumbled to his bedside in disbelief and sorrow, confusion and anger. This was no longer my drawing. The strokes that were known were now in question. I stared at his shut eyes with captured tears. His pale body was finally free.

A surge of movements began to occur, and my present moment quickly translated into moments of my past. Breathe, Claudia. Everything is going to be okay. I ran out of the room with teardrops flooding my eyes. I escaped past my framed friends on the walls and turned every attentive corner towards the closest payphone. Who could I turn to? Who could understand?

Twenty-five years old. I embrace every opportunity to honor the memories I have of my father. Although not shared in this post, there are more memories of his greatness than of my traumatic encounters. I find that the memory of this pain can sometimes, and most unwillingly, bring me back to a state of considerable grief, but the deal with sadness is this:

Sadness is an imperative expression that we must withstand. If engulfed, it can ruin us. It can contaminate our relationships and leave a stroke of disdain. If we are not deliberate of its purpose, we can devastate the most precious resource of all: time. But with acceptance and endurance, we can appreciate the memories that have not yet left us. We can finally savor the present..

On a warm Sunday afternoon, in the hills of Oakland, I am surrounded by a life full of excellence: a beautiful home, an exquisite view of redwoods and orange trees, and three hilariously entertaining pets.

Happy Father’s Day to the man whose life has taught me to endure.

#ClaudiaBrodeur #Blog