WITH THE UTMOST REVERENCE

Mark Fenton

                I wove my way through the throngs of ancients gathering for breakfast at Morgan's Point Retirement Home, dodging walkers, wheelchairs, and the occasional geriatric freight train bulldozing their way to the dining room. Staff darted here and there, navigating the traffic, serving breakfast, pouring drinks, and dispensing tiny paper cups of medication. Nametags assigned the seats at each table, though many sat vacant; not everyone arose for breakfast. Some, occasionally, would never rise again.

                 A large man in a wheelchair sat parked against the wall next to a vacant table at the far corner of the dining room, head tilted back, eyes closed and gently snoring. I slid into a seat at the table next to a window. Snow fell gently outside, and a group of teenagers pelted each other with snowballs in a nearby field.

                 "‎We've missed you around here."

                 I turned to the source of the familiar voice, a woman with a carafe in each hand.

                 "Hi Jo," I smiled. "Good to see you."

                 "Good morning Andy," she said cheerily to my father. She filled Dad's coffee cup then looked at me. "Coffee or tea for you?"

                 “No thanks.”

                 My father straightened in his wheelchair, his eyes fluttering open before locking on mine.

                 "Morning Dad," I said. "I came to join you for breakfast before I leave.”

                 "What would you like for breakfast Andy?" Jo asked.

                 My father looked at her, not quite seeming to comprehend. He looked over at me the same way. Not blank. Confused? I couldn't tell for sure.  He shook his head slightly. A moment of silence.

                 "I don't know," he said softly, almost incomprehensible.‎

                 "How about some oatmeal Andy?"

                 I’m sure it’s in the staff’s manual to always use the residents names. Some of them need reminders.

                 Dad nodded slightly and Jo disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a small bowl of oatmeal, toast and half banana before hustling off again.

                 I guess I’d fallen out of favour. She used to make up a breakfast for me too.

                 "Eggs over medium, beans, whole wheat toast and bacon for you Dave," I heard behind me. "And chocolate milk."

                 I stood up as Melanie set my breakfast in front of me. "Hey you," I smiled, got up and gave her a quick hug. “Great to see you."

                 "You too," she said, joining us at the table. "You've been missed." 

                 “Aren’t you supposed to be in your office managing this place?” I asked.

                 “Phhft.” she replied.  “I like it better out here.” Which is why stacks of files seemed to multiply on her desk. “One kitchen server called in sick, and our nurse had a family emergency, so, I’m filling in for both of them. Stop in and see me before you leave.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

                 Dad’s shaky hand took a creamer from the bowl.  A few hits and misses, but he finally opened it, pouring the contents into his coffee. I learned long ago that there were some things you didn’t do for residents of places like this. Some get lazy. The more they do for themselves, and for as long as possible, the more capable they feel.

                 “Did you have a good sleep?”

                 Dad nodded slightly, then took a nibble from his toast. This was as good as he was going to get today.

                 A trembling hand lifted his coffee to his lip. By some miracle, he didn’t spill a drop. He managed to consume half of his oatmeal, a few sips of orange juice and half of his coffee while I ate my breakfast with him. The Toronto Star sat on the table, untouched. It’d been a few months since Dad could concentrate enough to read the paper, but we kept the ritual alive.

                 “Don’t forget your pills,” I prodded.

                 He raised the tiny paper cup, with its ten or so pills to his lips, dumped them in his mouth, and washed them down with a few sips of coffee. He mumbled incoherently.

                 “Pardon?” I asked, leaning in to hear better.

                 “I’m done,” he croaked. “Take me back.”

                 I rolled him to room 237; twelve feet wide, twenty feet long.  He started breathing hard, grimacing.

                 “Dad, are you okay?”

                 “It hurts when I pee.”

                 I hope I never need a catheter.

                 “Can I help you to your chair?”

                 “Bed,” he whispered.

                  I rolled the chair beside the bed and locked the wheels, took off his shoes, and removed the foot supports from the wheelchair.

                  He grunted and groaned loudly as we got him to his feet.

                  I really should have had one of the other staff help me. Five foot eight, and two hundred and fifty pounds, he was a bit of a chore. I got him standing, but had to rotate him 90 degrees before he could sit down on the bed.

                  “How the hell did I get so crippled and useless so quickly?” he grunted.  Rhetorically I hoped. I didn’t want to answer that one.

                 We shuffled him around till his back was to the bed, then he folded his legs without warning, turning what should have been a soft landing into a barely controlled crash, but at least he missed the bed rail.

                 I got him settled in and comfortable, then took his call button from its charger and fastened it next to his head.

                 “I have to go now Dad,” I told him. “I’ll see you next time.”

                 He nodded and I gave him a kiss on the forehead.

                 “Remember, if you need to get out of bed, push the button and someone will come and help you. Do not try to get up by yourself.”

                 The old man nodded and closed his eyes. Five seconds and he was dead to the world. Probably not the best expression in this case. He’d fallen into a deep sleep. I probably should have had him take his teeth out first.

                 I sat is Dad’s easy chair and looked around the room. Eighty-four years old and living in two hundred and forty square feet. I could count the items he had left. A hospital bed, a chair, a small dresser holding his television. A mini fridge. The closet held the few clothes he needed, though my sister Gina stored the rest of his wardrobe at her house.  The bathroom occupied the corner next to the door.

                 In the bell curve of life you start with nothing.  You accumulate people and “stuff.”  Friends, a spouse, kids, cars, a house, money and toys before you peak. Then slowly, piece by piece, you lose it all.

                 There are the lucky ones of course. Dad’s older brother lived a good life.  He and my aunt still had all of their marbles and lived in their own house till the end.  He always had a new car.  One day, he sat down in his chair on the porch, fell asleep, and never woke up.  She died two days later. They were ninety-three.

                 This building contained the others; those like my father.                 My mother’s golden years had been better than Dad’s in some ways, worse in others. When his mobility issues forced them to move from into a retirement home, she continued her favourite pastime, which was a cheerfully sadistic torment of my father, and, anyone else around her for that matter. She never really had any filters, and anything she thought, good or bad, Edna said.  Truth was that few of us would have visited at all if it weren’t for Dad. We sure as hell didn’t enjoy her company.

                 The staff and facility here provide a full range of services to their clientele.  “Andy loves it here,” Edna told a family gathering in the lounge.  “They even wash his dick and wipe his ass.” The sight of Dad shrinking into his chair to the horrified looks of  family, friends and even total strangers in the room haunts me to this day.

                 But, the rip in her marble bag grew, till one by one, the marbles rolled out. “She’s battier than Carlsbad Caverns,” Dad said. In Mom’s last year at Morgan’s Point, Dad rarely left their room except for meals. He always feared leaving her alone, unsure of what trouble she’d get into. She was two patties short of a Big Mac, but physically, she was still able, and could cover a lot of ground very quickly. We moved her to another facility just over a year ago, and she passed away five months later.

                 Dad’s life began anew after she left. Free of his self-imposed confinement, he got out to more of the activities, and socialized with the other inmates, (oops, sorry, we’re supposed to call them residents). Just a few months ago he walked on his own, joked and laughed, and loved reading, watching television, and playing games. Then, what started as a minor cold turned into a lung infection and a month-long hospital stay. Dad’s capabilities dropped several notches.

                 I left the room to seek out Melanie. I’d almost reached her office when I encountered a murder of old crows in the front reception area.

                 “You Andy’s son?” one asked.

                 “I am,” I smiled.

                 “You tell him we want him back at the poker game!” another ordered.

                 “We’re hoping he’ll be back to playing poker and Bingo soon,” I replied.

                 “Screw the damn Bingo!” the first crony shot back.  “Poker!  That’s where we need Andy.”

                 “I'll let him know you're waiting for him,” I promised.

                 My rescuer rounded the corner.

                 “These ladies giving you a hard time?” Melanie inquired.

                 “Not really any of your beeswax if we were!” another crow shot back, sparkling mischief in her eyes.

                 “Not bothering me at all,” I said.

                 “Let's walk,” Mel suggested. “Stay out of trouble ladies!”

                 “Sounds like dad’s got quite the fan club here,” I observed once clear of the local gang.

                 “More like a harem than a fan club,” Melanie laughed.  “Andy’s quite the charmer.”

                 “Always has been,” I stated.  An unbidden image flashed through my mind of Dad and his harem gathered around a table playing strip poker. I shuddered slightly. “As long as they’re only playing for chips or money.”

                 Melanie laughed so hard she snorted.  “You wouldn’t believe the situations my staff walk in on.  They’re old, but they’re not dead. Our pharmacy dispenses its fair share of Viagra.”

                 I suppose many of us are guilty of thinking of the elderly as being past their days of thrills and excitement. But dreams, fantasies, and mischievousness don’t always disappear with age. We reached her office and she ushered me in.

                 “What a difference a few months make,” I prompted.

                 “A big difference in Andy's case,” she said. “Some days will be better than others, but you know where he's heading.”

                 I nodded. My sisters and I had discussed dad’s condition and ‘post-departure planning’.  “Lucy and Gina gave me the full update,” I confirmed. “Spots on his lungs and a few other areas, and his liver's pretty much packed it in. Any idea how long he might have left?”

                 Mel shrugged.  “How long do any of us have? Weeks?  Months?  He may see Easter. Maybe even summer.  But he’s passed his last Christmas.”

                 “With his new hip and knee, and his pacemaker pretty much still under warranty, I figured there wasn’t much more to knock him down,” I commented. “But anyone who knows Dad won’t be surprised that his liver had hit its Best Before Date. The only surprise is that it didn't explode years ago from a lifetime of abuse.”

                 “And it hasn’t helped that his brother keeps sneaking bottles of Canadian Club in to him,” Mel stated. “We'll take good care of him as long as we can, though.”

                 “I know you will,” I acknowledged, getting up from my chair. “I had a good visit with him. I’ll see you again in May, if not before.”

                 Nine days later, my phone rang back in Moose Jaw just after ten p.m. with my sister Lucy’s name showed on the call display. It was two hours later in her time zone, so I knew why she was calling, or at least, I thought I did.

                 “I think Dad’s dead,” she said.

                 “Um, what the hell do you mean you think he’s dead?”

                 “Well, Gina just called me and she thinks dad’s dead.”

                 “Well, could you find out for sure and call me back!” It was one of those subjects that needed a definitive statement.

                 Another call a short while later, confirming that my father had peacefully made the voyage to The Great Beyond.

                 I called my youngest daughter Dani away, with a caution not to spread the word just yet. My job was to make the phone calls to key family members first thing in the morning to inform them as quickly as possible. There’s nothing worse than some idiot posting about the death of a family member on Facebook before the important people are informed. Such idiots exist in many families.

                 My other daughter, Terri, lives in China teaching English, so I called her on Skype and broke the news.

                 “Are you okay Dad?” she asked. “Are you flying back to Ontario right away?”

                 “I'm fine thanks, but I'm not flying out,” I replied. “He’s being cremated tomorrow, and we’ll be having a service for him in May.”

                 She covered her mouth with her hand, her head kind of spasming. At first I thought she was crying.

                 “You’re laughing!” I accused.

                 “Yes!” she acknowledged, “And it’s your fault! As soon as you said Grampa was being cremated. You know the story!”

                 I chuckled. “Oh. Yeah. That.”

            The generally held view is that cremation isn’t supposed to be funny, so about twenty years earlier, when my father's departure plan unexpectedly came up, not everyone appreciated my response.

“We went to the lawyer’s office today to update our wills and funeral plans,” my mother stated.  “Did you know your father wants to be cremated?”

                 The statement caught me off guard, since we were in the middle of a card game, it was my deal, and tossing dad into the oven was about the furthest thing from my mind.

                 “Really?” I looked at my father.

                 My wife Bev opened with her two sets of four. “It's a lot more common these days,” she chimes in.

                 “Well not for me!” my mother insisted.

                 Dad took a drink of his lightly diluted Canadian Club, not responding. My mother had a habit of getting her way; some described my father as whipped, but I hoped that he would at least have a say in his final sendoff.

                 “Dad, have you thought about this?” I asked seriously.

                 My father dropped a nickel into the bowl and drew three cards off the deck.  He had to reach further than the rest of us due to his oversized belly. Okay, truth be told, he was fat.

                 “Sure,” he said.  “Got it all worked out.”

                 I thought about it for a second. “Don't you realize how dangerous cremation is?” I asked. “How many people could get hurt?”

                  He raised an eyebrow in my direction.  “What the hell are you talking about?” His patience on this subject had grown thinner than rice paper.

                 “Dad, I was barbequing a pork roast the other day, and left it on the spit unattended longer than I should have,” I explained in my gravest tone.  “Have you ever seen a fat fire get out of control? The thick, black smoke was awful, the flames...my God it was an inferno!  Nothing left but a crispy piece of coal. We're lucky no bystanders were hurt! I could have asphyxiated the entire neighbourhood!”

                  My mother gasped in horror. “David!” she said sharply. “That’s a horrible thing to say to your father!”

                  I looked over at Dad, vibrating silently in his chair, his beet red face made me wonder if we'd be stoking the furnace sooner than later. Then, he roared, loud and long. I don't think my father had ever laughed so hard in his life.

                 *                  *                      *                      *                      *

                 Burial day came, and at my Uncle Ron’s suggestion, we dropped a forty-ouncer of CC down the hole on top of the urn to keep Dad warm on cold nights. Father Leo did a nice, short, non-religious send off at graveside.

                 At the reception afterwards, complete with roast pork in the cold cuts, my sisters volunteered me to say a few words of thanks to everyone for coming out and joining us to say farewell to Dad. Uncle Ron came up to me right afterwards.

                 “Is this where we take the microphone and take turns roasting him?” he asked.

                 “He’s already roasted,” Bev retorted.  “That’s how he got in the jar.”

                 Mixed reactions of delight and horror from those within earshot, which I added to by relating the Barbeque Story.  That evening, a few of us kicked off our shoes to relax at Gina’s place.

                 “So, um, not to be morbid or anything,” Lucy said, “but Dad just got a new knee and an artificial hip last year.  Would they have burned up too? I know they have to take out breast implants because they explode in the fire.”

                 “Not to mention his pacemaker just got a new battery,” Gina added.

                 “Nah that stuff wouldn’t have burned up,” I said.  “They’d have to sift that out before the ashes went into the urn.”

                 “So what do they do with the spare parts that didn’t burn up?” Lucy asked.  “Is there a store somewhere with used artificial knees and hips?”

                 “Might be,” I mused.  “And discounted pacemakers.  Hardly used, only slightly scorched.  Pick up your pacemaker at a discount here, all sales final.”

                 “They should still be under warranty,” Gina added.

                 The room went silent for a moment, then I started laughing, then the rest joined in. Such is our family. We toasted our father and knew that somewhere, he wasn’t just laughing with us, he was laughing at us.