Goodbye Dad.

All your stuff has been distributed, stored, sold or handed out. Some, not a lot, has been thrown out.

It hurt tossing out the last remnants of your things into a dirty dumpster overseen by some loading dock Nazi who had nothing better to do than to scold me for not remembering to bring my keys along for the last trip down. You’ll be happy to know, Dad, that while I did lose it on this midget dictator with a tirade of stream of consciousness venom, I reigned it in before my voice cracked or got too loud. Your dining room chairs, as ugly as they were, were easy to toss over the side, but when it came to the marble tiles you so cleverly, proudly matched up to the marble of the table and turned into placemats, I felt anger well up inside me.

Fuck. You. World. Just fuck you. Seriously. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I can’t cry any more.

Your ashes sit in my living room, beside my favorite picture of you. You’re physically gone. I can relax now. Sort of. I’ve processed the physical, now I just have to live through the rest.

I’m in the washroom, brushing my toof. I can hear SharkBoy in the bedroom hustling to get ready for work.

There’s a pause.

Suddenly the culturally familiar “Vwwoooshh” of an expensive toy lightsabre being ignited can be heard.

The noise of something rustling off the bed onto the floor, nails trying to get a grip on the hardwood.

A cat flies past the bathroom door.

SharkBoy in his shoes and underclothes* runs past the door, lightsabre waving.

It certainly feels like a Monday.

*Yes he puts his shoes on first before the shorts so that his dress shorts aren’t wrinkled if he were to sit and tie his shoes. He’s pragmatic.

Going through my father’s stuff has been a rollercoaster ride, to say the least. I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over pictures of my father posing with friends (mostly I can identify them but there are some head scratchers) and suddenly I come across a picture of my father and myself. At 21, I’m scared shitless because I’m hours away from taking my first ever flight. To London. First time away. I’m looking to the sky, mugging/not really mugging, as my head rests upon my father’s chest. His chin is back and he’s looking down at me as if to say “Get the hell off me”.

Bless him!

The Bag mystery has been somewhat decoded. Brother Dan came to me while he was going through photos too and found a picture of a blond man sitting in a smartly decorated room. On the back was written “Johnathan” in Da’s hand. Dan asked me who this good looking man was. I started to explain:

“That was Johnathan. He was a retail manager for the Polo/Ralph Lauren Yorkville store back in the 80s. I’m not sure how Da and he met but they were good friends. Johnathan was Dad’s first friend to die of AIDS…” and I trail off, diving into the pool of memory.

Of course! The contents of The Bag was mostly Johnathan’s! I remembered a story Dad told me of having to go into Johnathan’s apartment to remove some of the more racier things before family came into the apartment. Dad must have kept most of it for himself.

It doesn’t explain the slight, but still quite noticeable odour of pot that permeates from The Bag when you open it. At 78, however, I don’t think he’s pulling a Mrs Madrigal, but there it is, none the less.

A new mystery has arose since The Bag came into the light. Deep within Da’s photos, he has about 30 pictures taken from a Kodak110 camera from his buying trip around the world, an extended business trip he took in the very early 80s to go to various fashion outlets to see what was new and then taking those ideas to factories in Asia. Yay captialism! The pictures are all of monuments and travel icons but with no people in them – Da was alone on the trip. However, in Paris, there is one picture of him at an outdoor cafe, a beer sits near him, he stares back at the camera with the light in his eyes. Who took it? A sympathetic waiter? A fellow traveller he struck up a conversation with?

Billy - Click to Enlarge

Two pictures after that I come across a strikingly handsome man. Strikingly handsome. Like, “whoa, Dad! Please let him be my new mom!” handsome. Who is he? Dad never mentioned him. On the back Da has wrote:  “Billy – Florence 1982”. I show the picture around the family. Dan being closer to Da’s homosexuality around that time (moreso than I was – I hadn’t come out yet) didn’t recall any stories from Dad regarding European romps from Dad’s trip. This “Billy” is…

He’s…?

Okay here’s the crazy part.

He is someone my father met (and I have a solid gut feeling about this) and fell in love with instantly. There’s only one picture of this mystery man, but I have a feeling that any more pictures of Billy would have sent up alarms regarding my father’s homosexuality. Which is probably why there isn’t any more – “Oh some guy I met at the hotel bar…” etc. One would have to do. The fact that this is the only “human” shot in the pack, other than the cafe shot of himself, suggest to me some sort of reverence. Some importance. “Billy’s” half turn and relaxed manner suggests that there was more than just a “Vi prego diretto alla discoteca”

Of course I’m speculating wildly here. For all I know this could be the taxi driver Da snapped between a hotel and airport. Or tour guide. Or he’s a business contact. But I’m finding some odd comfort in knowing that Dad had met someone that he shared a meaningful, relaxed moment with on that long lonely trip across the world.

That, or he got laid.

Sassy and Auggie are restless. All through pre-dinner oos and aahs, they would twist in my brother’s arms and gurgle and poop. Much like any 5 week old baby twin girls would do. Funny thought, (to me or any other sci fi geek, anyway): tiny infants cry a lot like the chest bursting Alien. Shrill, sharp air across munchkin sized fresh vocal chords. Eeeerrrriiieeeeeah!

I digress.

My brother Dan, his husband, Mark and SharkBoy and I have been invited over for a small dinner at my other brother, Mike and Morwyn’s house. Because Dan and Mark have to go back to England in a couple days we probably all won’t be in the same room again like this for a long time, so despite all of us being bone dead tired (Mike and Morwyn especially – twins!) we gather.

I can’t explain the fatigue I’m feeling while nursing a beer on my brother’s couch. Work wasn’t so much a drain, as it was a challenge. One manager came to my cube and wasn’t aware of my father’s passing. He cheerfully asked if my “time away” was fun, assuming I was on holiday. I didn’t bother correcting him. The owner of the company stuck his head over my cube wall and offered bizarre condolences that only he could offer. By the end of the day I had explained and retold a family-guarded version of the last week’s events to about a half dozen people.

The girls are fussing. They’re up, they’re down, they’re crying, they’re quiet. Dan has Sassy in his arms and is successfully, slowly getting her quieted down. Auggie is another matter, she’s found her voice. Mike and Morwyn are snatching food between baby yelps. The conversation becomes pointed:

Mike: (while walking around, shifting baby in arm to shoulder to arm) This is kind of funny…
Auggie: Reeeeearrrrrh!
Morwyn: Almost ironic… (she’s huffing food down so she can get back to being a mom)
Sassy: eeeeemmf.
Mike: Yeah because here they are being all loud and stuff…
Auggie: Eeeeh.
Morwyn: …And we were hoping to ask you to be their godparents.

I sit in stunned silence. I look at Dan across the table. He’s smiling. I look at SharkBoy and he’s got the exact look on his face as I do.

Wut?

Morwyn: What do you think, SharkBoy? Is this something…?
Auggie: eeEEEEeee!

We just sat there. We didn’t look at each other. Someone expresses their desire for you to be the responsible guardian of their children in case of something awful happening and we just sat there.

I learn later that SharkBoy thought my brother and sister in law were addressing Dan and I. Hence the lack of reaction. When he realized they were including him, he was stunned.

My excuse was that I had just gone through a week of crying. There was nothing left in the well. Not even for tears of joy. There was nothing I could muster to show my appreciation, my joy. I just sat there. We both did. To Mike and Morwyn I am sure it looked like we were hedging on the question.

DeadRobot: (pause) I. Say… Yes.
SharkBoy: Yes!

We’re sharing duties with Morwyn’s sister, who arrived later and when told, had a much more animated reaction (tears, hugs, peals of laughter, etc). I saw this and thought instantly, Oh crap, we didn’t express any kind of joy…!

In the cab home, SharkBoy voices what I’m thinking: “I’m really touched. But I just couldn’t get excited when I realized they were talking to me! Not that I don’t want to do it, it’s just a bomb after a week of emotional carpet bombing.”

“Don’t feel guilty. I’m sure they understand.”

Later, in bed, we talk about bringing the girls to DisneyWorld. I fall asleep in mid-sentence.

My father had three very distinct sections to his life.

The first part of his life he lived for his parents. I’ve heard stories of terrific fights between he and his father. Yet my dad carried his father’s tenets of career and family to heart. He dutifully got a career, got a wife, had kids. He stayed in this part of his life for half of it. When the kids grew up, he moved into the next part of his life.

When I was 16 my father came out of the closet.

He then lived his life for himself. His entrance into the gay community was like a re-birth for him. He joined Toronto Area Gays Coming Out Support Group, one of the few support groups at the time and forged long lasting friendships through them. My father, the serious man who would dole out parental decisions with curt Yes, Nos or “Wait… what did your Mother tell you?” suddenly became a funny man.

Dad and I moved to Brantford during my last year in High school. We lived in a large mansion that had 6 rental units in it and one Halloween the upstairs neighbours decided to hold a costume party. We talked a bit about what we were going to wear but nothing came of it, I though we were just going to crash it in street clothes. The night of the party, Dad came home with two cheap plastic jumpsuit superhero costumes with thin plastic masks. The ones you’d get at WalMart. I was Captain America. He was Wonder Woman.

Thing is, he bought kid sized jumpsuits. They were impossibly small. We managed to slip into them, the cuffs came up to our knees and elbows. They were tight.

We set out for the party and we hit the stairs going up to the apartment. Our first step we split the side seam from thigh to armpit. By the time we got to the top, we were wearing strips of plastic off our shoulders. Thankfully we had underwear on underneath.

In the 90s dad had his first encounter with his pancreas, which literally left him in pain every time he got near alcohol. His surgery was a marker into the third part of his life:

After this he lived his life for other people.

Da was already active in Prime Timers, as was a weekly volunteer with ACT. I remember hauling h’ors dourves with him in the rain at one Fashion Cares. When his pancreas got in the way he was forced to vacate his seat on the World Board of Prime Timers when his health started to fail. He scaled back his availability to two acts of volunteerism: MCCT and the Gardiner Ceramics Museum. Both groups became central to his life and enabled him to come into contact with such amazing people.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t available for advice. Friends, family and co-workers would come to him and find him a wealth of experience and knowledge. Around this time he developed a motto:

I’ve told you what to do, now do what you like.

It was my father’s mantra in the later years of his life.

Now. I’m going to tell you what to do…

If you love someone tell them right now that you do.

Now. Do what you like.

It’s just 8 hours after my father’s death, close to 24 hours before the whole thing started. I’ve had maybe 1 hour of sleep, stolen on a couch in the ICU waiting room around 4am. I’m headed towards Da’s apartment to meet up with my two other brothers and sister to start the whole process of sorting, finding and …processing.

My phone rings as I’m about to turn the corner of the street where the apartment is.

“Hi.” Pause. “Is this… Ted?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Pamela, I’m the property manager from… your father’s…”

“Building?” I offer.

“Yes. I. You’ve heard… I mean.”

“Yes. My father passed away this morning.”

The flood gates are open and the words rush out: “Oh I am very sorry about this. We know Edward was a new tenant but he seemed like such a lovely man. There are a couple questions I have regarding the people going into the unit.”

“I’m right outside, can we continue this conversation in person?”

“Of course!” We hang up and I enter the management office. Despite a shower, fresh clothes and a stolen 20 minute nap, I still look like a car hit me. She’s a bit taken aback.

“Yours was the emergency contact info we have on file. We’re concerned that there are a lot of people entering the unit.”

“We’re a large family,” I offer, trying to keep it light.

“Well we’ll need a signed letter from the Executors saying they’ll be entering the unit.”

“Of course. I’ll write that up and get all the Executors to sign it. I’ll bring it down for you shortly.”

“And a list of people who may be using the unit… for the security desk,” She adds quickly.

“Certainly, I can go upstairs and confirm with the rest of the family as to who will be around this weekend during the funeral proceedings.”

“And you’ll have to vacate in 30 days.”

“Oh…kay…” I stammer. I offer that my other brother will be taking care of the apartment details and he will come down and discuss the whole situation with her soon.

The wave of anger doesn’t hit me until I’m at the elevator. My father, not even 12 hours gone, is evicted corpus delecti.

We decide that she can take an email, not a signed letter, and I fire one off to her after she’s gone home for the day. We’ll deal with her after the funeral. Fuck you heartless cow.

__________________

My father volunteered at The Gardiner Ceramics Museum. Quite a bit. Like, on average 3 hours a day – that’s a lot for a 78 year old man. He spoke highly of working there: loving the colours and shapes of the contemporary artists and the company of his co-workers too. He would bring home a bowl a day, it seems. Every dinner invitation to his apartment was a new bowl discovery, filled with his nutmeg infused sweet potatoes.

While we’re making preparations for the viewing, my brother had the great idea that since Da was going to be cremated, we should ask his boss if there was a vessel we could use for his ashes. I joked that we’re looking for something from the Ming Dynasty. Nothing too ostentatious.

We make contact with Da’s old boss, she puts us in touch with the manager of the gift shop who tells us to stop by to talk to her.

We show up at the store like a posse: my two brothers, one sister-n-law, my sister and SharkBoy and myself walk into the small gift shop. We’re greeted warmly by all the staff and they begin to say how much they loved my father. It’s concluded with a broad sweep of the manager’s arm across the store. Take a look around. SharkBoy and Michele see a red Raku vase with lid, a vase made with horse hairs seared into the glaze during the pot’s time in the kiln. It’s utterly something Da would have bought for himself yet probably would have balked at the price.  I am sure it’s well over $1000 due to the location within the store. Higher up = higher price. The shelf it was on was nearly touching the ceiling. The volunteer takes it down for us to look at and after quick deliberation, we all decide that this is the perfect vase for Da. My brother reaches for his wallet. The volunteer says no charge.

SharkBoy utters a hiccup gasp. “Oh …god,” he says and leaves the shop fast.

It’s like seeing someone puke. He’s crying so I start crying. I leave the store less quietly, trailing sobs like water balloons. Outside we grab onto each other.

“He. Would. Have. Loved. It.” SharkBoy says between gasps.

“I. Know! It’s. Beautiful!” I reply in kind.

“I can’t believe they’re giving it to us!”

Michele comes out and gives us some tissues. After capping the well, I return to the store, the stoic facemask back on. As I enter, all eyes to me.

I stop. I pause. I smile like nothing happened. With force:

“Thank you!”

Thankfully everyone laughs.

Dad’s visitation and “Gathering” info:

The visitation is on Sunday Aug 15th, 2 pm at Humphrey Funeral Home at 1403 Bayview Ave.

Dad also wanted a non-formal “service” (he hand wrote “a Gathering!” in his will) which will take place at The Metropolitan Community Church of Toronto, 115 Simpson Ave, on Monday Aug 16, 2 to 5pm. He had rejected religion when he came out but still loved the church and the social that went with it. Eventually religion found it’s way back into his life and he was enriched by it. Its the same room we use to practice flag twirling with ROTC years back… weird.

Edward Healey: 1932 – 2010

“There. I’ve told you what to do. Now do what you like.”

Love you and miss you.