The Miraculous Will to Go On


Since March 2006 my father has been confined to his bed by a progressive heart disease that has left him with severe edema and some respiratory distress. To make matters worse, my father's mobility has been restricted for most of his life, with a hip and a knee joint fused, and he has obstructive sleep apnea necessitating a C-PAP mask to breathe while sleeping. Still, he soldiered on, well into his late seventies, dangerously manoeuvring the stairs in our house, until finally an "non-emerg" ambulance with a stretcher was necessary to transport him to medical appointments. After a month-long hospitalization in March he was not expected to return to live at home. Defying the odds, he insisted on being brought back, even though he could not get into his own bed without being lifted into it by paramedics. Since then he has been assisted out of bed once a day just before lunch by several personal care workers. Starting with just a few shuffled steps and leaning heavily on his roll-a-tor walker, with his assistants on either side, he inched his way along, huffing and puffing. The first threshold was to make it to the door of his room, then it was a few feet down the hall, each month brought small gains, though his joints caused him considerable pain.Five months of this daily routine and my father has shuffled his way from his bedroom to his living room, a distance of about thirty feet. It is a slow grueling journey, and it must reach its midpoint while he still has the energy to make the return trip. If he loses steam before he makes it back he will collapse. He is unable to sit in a conventional wheelchair, and a specially designed one was due to be delivered when he deteriorated dramatically last March. (My father has requested that the chair now be delivered, to a chorus of cheers.) This week, my father made it all the way into the living room and sat on a large armchair will the help of some cushions that propped him up. This helped compensate for the impediments caused by his disabled limbs and worn down joints. (I took these photos in Toronto last weekend; he's wearing a "Southampton" t-shirt I got him years ago.) After 5 minutes he was raised out of the chair and moved back to his room. Because of his instability and weakness, he is forced to look forward at all times to gauge each step and place it carefully. There is no time to look back. This epitomizes his general perspective on life. He survived a poor childhood, and serious health problems, and as he said in 2005 after blowing out his candles, "I never expected to celebrate my 80th birthday." His spirits could not have been better, though it is clear that he never expected to be a widower by his 81st birthday. That was a heartbreaking experience for him, especially because while they both remained at home, their limited mobility meant that they did not even see each other every day. It has been only four months since my mother's death, and he is still lonely and despondent at times. Yet, with all this, he smiled all the way back to his room. You could see the perspiration beading up on his forehead, and hear his panting for air, but it is determination that is most palpable. He intends to reach a day where he can once again get out of the bed and return to his favorite chair in the kitchen. (All this despite doctors' dire predictions (that his heart would give out by the end of 2004, then 2005, then simply: "I cannot explain it.")Congestive Heart Failure does not cure itself. Not a candidate for any corrective surgery, his condition is controlled by medication and he is closely monitored, but aside from his daily "walk" he does not move the other 23.5 hours of the day. But he moves us with his courage, his optimism and his complete embrace of life.