There is an idea in Celtic Christianity of something called thin time, when the membrane between this world and whatever lies beyond is an almost transparent veil.
My 88-year old father has entered that time.
He is in that death canal, that strange and mysterious zone that exists between this world and the next. It is both a beautiful and terrible transitition.
Our family is taking turns keeping vigil. From that lovely, vigilia, a word that describes this time as an observance or a devotional watching.
We are being called upon to bear witness to his leaving.
He has said goodbye and I love you to each of us. He even winked at a joke yesterday. But his organs are shutting down, his body is being shed like ill-fitting clothes and we are down to the essence of what made Heinrich Friesen the man we adore; humour, grace, compassion, proud dignity and endless love.
Ask anyone around his bedside for a story about Hank and you will hear something like the one Kevin told me on our drive back from Menno Home the other night…
When Dad was 65, we had a party for him. He loved work and saw no point in quitting, so we called it the Un-Retirement Party. Kevin was running for mayor at the same time. We had a big dinner, people gave speeches and then it was my dad’s turn to stand up to speak. He reached under the table and stood with a lawn sign that proclaimed, Kevin Redl for Mayor.
Each of us have one of those Hank stories, a story that illustrates that Hank Friesen was always your biggest supporter; a fan club with one super-devoted member.
In my life, I have been richly blessed by a good father. He continues to bless me in his dying.
I want him to be released from the bonds of this earth, but at the same time, I find it impossible to envision my life without him in it.
How can I begin to imagine what has never been?
Hi Colleen, it was like time had stood still seeing you and Kevin at Hanks farewell, we all entered into the “Anglo world” with ours eyes wide open and the excitement saved for the young and eager to make a difference. I continue to exercise his love of his business to this day.
I will till the day I leave.
Regards,
Patrick
Patrick, I agree. It was like we jumped on board a time travel train, simply picking up where we had left off (which, weirdly, turns out to have been quite awhile ago). It was fun remembering ‘Hank-isms’. I’m glad you’re keeping his spirit and love of business alive. Thank you.
Another wonderfully written post Colleen.
Thanks Joanna. He was so lucky to have your love and caring.
What a beautiful tribute to your father Colleen and gift for all of you who are together at this poignant time. He’s touched many lives and leaves a wonderful legacy. Thinking of you and your family.
Liz
I’m thinking of you. At least you have the chance to say good-bye. Please remember me to him if you get the chance.
We had no time when life was snatched from Bob’s brother Fred last week. He was 87, excellent health, great memory, golfed twice a week (never with a cart), walked for minimum an hour every day, and was our regular Sunday dinner guest.
Last Monday he had a gut ache and asked Bob to take him to Emergency at 6 pm. Tues morning he was unconscious in ICU on life support — all organs shutting down — acute pancreatitis. Wed morning we said farewell. He was a dear, kind, generous, thoughtful, lovable man with a sense of humour.
No good-byes. It was such a shock!
Oh Martha, what a horrible shock for your family. I’m so sorry to hear about Bob’s brother and the suddenness of his death.
You’re so right that we’ve had our chance to say goodbye in a real and complete way.
And, at the same time, I know my dad would comment on those ‘perfect endings’ of people who died suddenly. More than once he suggested that a sudden heart attack would be the ideal.
I am glad he didn’t get to script his demise, because I am so grateful for our time to say goodbye.
It seems to me that there is no great way for this life to end.
Although one of those ‘movie’ style deaths a la Love Story would be kind of perfect…one where the main characters gets a terminal illness (which has no real symptoms and no side-effects from any medications) and then they have just enough time to look great, lying in bed only briefly, but with good makeup while they say meaningful goodbyes to everyone.
Unfortunately, we don’t get to write our own scripts for these things, all we get is a chance to make meaning out of whatever we get. Such is the trick of life…
It really is a “beautiful and terrible transition”. I strive to be connected to my own soul, to the souls of others. And yet, it feels impossible to imagine myself and the people I love– apart from the physical body. I’m thinking of you…
Angie, that’s so true. It seems obvious to me too, that the soul is separate and yet, how do we experience it without the person/body/vessel that holds that essential soul-spirit?
Oh, my thoughts are with you so much, Colleen. This post is heartbreakingly beautiful, and yet as frank as Frank himself. I still remember the minute that my dad told me he had Parkinson’s… I felt like the earth had suddenly stopped turning, and I had gone spinning soundlessly out into a beyond-time place. Fathers, if we are lucky, are as elemental as dirt and bone – they feel like the scaffolding underpinning our whole lives, and so impossible to imagine not being there. I feel you on the edge there with him, how moving and exquisitely balanced the moment, before the tipping point to the other side of the unimaginable. Hang on, dear one, there is all this much love for you too, and we love you most for your willingness to just… be, and to share the journey, whatever comes
‘If we are lucky’. No truer words than that Laurie. So many are unlucky with fathers.
I love the idea of them being as ‘elemental as dirt and bone’. Absolute truth in that.
It is such a thin thin veil between here and there, alive and dead, and yet, it also feels so woven together that the idea of separation feels like a ridiculously arbitrary construct.
I have always loved Dr. Gabor Mate’s quote that you can only separate the body and mind at autopsy.
Perhaps soul, like love, transcends all our framings?
It is indeed a special time in our lives when we have to say good-bye to our parents. I wonder if we truly understand the enormity of it. I felt my Mom was going on a trip and would be back. The same as with my father. They have travelled with me in a different way as I have travelled with them through the past. Joan
Joan, I think it’s so true that we probably never ‘truly understand the enormity of it”. Our parents are woven and so enmeshed in the fabric of our lives, that to imagine them not there is impossible. Perhaps that’s their gift for us.
The gentlest thoughts with you and your family as you navigate this passage Colleen…xxoo
Thank you so much Julie. It is definitely a navigation…a very delicate and mysterious process.
It’s a really lovely last thing that we can do with our parents, and I think you’ve captured the essence of it perfectly. Your Dad has been as lucky to have you as a daughter as you have been to have him as a Dad. And that you both seem to know that is extraordinary. Big hugs Coleen!
Thanks John…it really does feel like a blessing to be witness Dad’s full cycle. It’s like he’s going through a death canal, with very little difference from a birth. Life is such a strange circular process. And you’re right on the mutual fan club…I scored big in the dad department 🙂