A Good Man
- by Byron Bidiuk
“If I can finish my time on this world and have
people say that I was half the man my father was, I will have lived a good life
and been what most have not, a good man.” – Beginning of my speech at my
father’s remembrance.
People are born. People die. The hospital is the
starting line and finishing line to our journeys. We come into the world, clear
our throats, let out a howl and cry. We each exit the world in our own way.
On Dec. 2nd, 2010, I played music for my father, Ken,
while he was in his hospital bed. He liked old-time female singers. So I played
female crooners for him. He once told me that he had seen Cleo Laine at a club
downtown. I was jealous. Man was I ever jealous.
The hospital room was neutral. As neutral as could
be. Some machines hummed carelessly, trying not to interfere, going about their
business. They weren’t hooked up to my father. They were like background noise.
The room was warm enough not to be cold.
I held his hand while his grey eyes stared at the
ceiling. The nurses had neglected the droppers. I suppose they didn't want to
interrupt my mother because he was so close to the end. At least, that is what
I tell myself so I do not harbour negative feelings towards the kind nurses in
the palliative unit. They had taken care of him and my mother. They are a
certain breed of people. I am forever grateful for them.
I kept squeezing his hands while the songs played for
him. I was hoping he would squeeze back. Of course he didn't. And I knew he
wouldn't. But I'll be damned if I didn't have that hope. That wish. That need.
I needed that hand to squeeze back so bad. I was even angry that it would not
squeeze back. I was hurt, as if he had stopped caring and didn’t want to
squeeze my hand. The brain does some funny things under emotional distress.
Once in a while he would twitch. And your brain would
tell you that he could get better. Your brain would tell you it was going to be
ok. Your desire played itself out in your brain, no matter how irrational and
unlikely.
We were eventually told we should go home for the
night. His breathing had gradually slowed. It was more shallow. I played him
one last song and gave him a huge hug, I rubbed my face on his stubble, which
the nurses forgot to shave (to this day I am thankful they forgot).
When we were younger he would give us hugs and
scratch our faces with his stubble. He would laugh and we would exaggerate how
upset we were and how grossed out we were. Every time he hugged you, you would
know that stubble was coming. I miss that stubble. To this day I close my eyes
and try to remember that feeling. Of course, it is not the same.
When we got home we played video games until the
phone rang. We knew he would likely die in the night. My mother had been
allowed to have two beds pushed together so she could lie down beside him and
sleep there. The nurses suggested it when they found her curled up beside him. She
was so small. And he was so very large, even in his malnourished and shrunken
state. The little gestures are sometimes the biggest.
The phone eventually rang. We went directly to the
hospital to say goodbye. Except this time there were no machines, no breathing
and no movement. His hands were cold. I grabbed them even though they wouldn't
squeeze back. I held them tightly in some silly hope I could warm them up and
feel his clammy touch once again. I got into his bed to hug him. I nuzzled my
cheek into his hoping I would be able to store that feeling and memory forever.
I didn't want to leave. My mother told me to come along so the nurses could do
their jobs. It is probably best she did or I would have sat at his side crying
until I ran out of tears.
Anyway, the last song I played him was Billie
Holiday's version of I'll Be Seeing You. On each December 2nd since I
have played that song at his grave. I will continue to do so. On each December
3rd I show up and update him on my successes and failures in life,
where I went right, where I went wrong, what I’ll do different next time.
Things like that. I suppose I’m updating his grave, not him.
Or, more likely, my conscience. Our parents live on
in our consciences. I take an inventory of myself, try to keep it objective. I’m
not perfect and I don’t claim to be. But I do my best. My goal? It is simple. I
try to be what my father was, a good man in a filthy and undeserving world. A
man among boys, young and old. Why? Because nobody ever said life would be easy
and no matter what life throws at you, at the end of your time here it is your
actions and who you are that people remember.
It is our stories that people remember. It is our
stories that keep us going. They make us laugh. They make us cry. They join us
together. They separate us. In the end, they are all we have. The world carries
on and when your stories are forgotten you are finally gone from this world.
But, while those stories are alive some form of
permanence is accomplished. And in a world of change and death permanence is a
victory. Being a man, not in the tough no-bull-shit sense, but in the
respectful and moral sense, seems a noble enough pursuit. Not for notoriety but
as an end in itself.
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