Je t’aime, Papa – An Open Letter to My Father

I look into your pale, icy blue eyes. They’re clear and bright like a summer sky. I still can’t get used to the sight of you without the dark horn-rimmed glasses you wore for most of your adult life. 

Your eyes search my face. I see a flicker of recognition pass through your gaze, and for a moment, a mischievous twinkle. Your mouth twitches with a tentative smile. Today, you know me. Tomorrow, you won’t. 

I take your hand, lean in close for a hug and kiss your forehead. You’re so thin and frail, my breath catches in my throat. I always thought you’d outlive us all. You were always so strong and healthy. Plus, there’s longevity in your family. Grand-Maman and a couple of your uncles lived well into their 90s. One even reached the ripe old age of 102. You were supposed to be one of them. But Alzheimer’s Disease has been steadily taking you from us for the past five years, and now you’re just a shell of the man my mother married and of the father I’ve always admired. 

“Bonjour Papa. Tu m’as manqué.” I’ve missed you. You take in my long, unkempt Covid hair, smiling eyes and blue medical mask and whisper, “Allô.” I’m so thankful to be here with you, Maman, your chérie of 57 years, and Rémi, my ‘little’ brother, who towers over me and is a wonderful father himself. He’s the loving sibling who drove all the way to Toronto to pick me up and bring me to you.  

All night long, I whispered to the universe, “Hang on, Papa. Please. Just a while longer.  I’m coming. I want to see you and hold you one last time before you leave us for good.” I tossed and turned, repeating this mantra over and over, praying you would know I was there, that I came, that I love you.  All the while, my brother’s pained admission echoed in my ears. “Papa is dying,” he’d called to say. “He’s officially entered the end-of-life stage of his life. If you want to see him, you should come now.” It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I’d planned to visit in August and spend every day I could by your side. “I’ll come get you,” Rémi had added, as I reeled from the news. And he did. Like a knight in shining armor, he drove all the way to Toronto and back to take me to your side.

We look at each other as I take your hand in mine. Thousands of miles and a global pandemic have kept us apart for the past year and a half. But, I’m here now. Vaccinated and out of quarantine.  Thank you for waiting for me before leaving us for what lies ahead. By some miracle you’ve come to, out of your Alzheimer’s fog, one last time to be with Maman, Rémi and me and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. 

The spark of mischief and humor that was in your eyes is gone, now. All that remains is your deep, calm and trusting nature. You struggle to breathe and grip my hand tightly. Strip away the armor, wit and manners and what’s left behind isn’t always pleasant. Not so with you. You’re kind through and through. Your zen outlook and warm, caring nature remain. You were and continue to be one of the good guys, a loving husband and father, a trusted friend, thoughtful mentor and beautiful soul. 

You’ve always been my hero. Smart, confident and charming, you never lost your cool, always had a funny observation or offhand remark that was completely on point. Never one to monopolise a conversation, you could always be counted on for a great anecdote, and yet, knew the value of silence. You made me and everyone around you feel listened to and respected when they spoke.

There are so many things I will miss about you. I will miss your dad jokes, playing cribbage for nickels and dimes, crawling around in the dirt to capture the perfect photograph, chasing frogs and admiring the sunset while enjoying a beer and salted pretzels. I’ll miss marveling at your new inventions, listening to you play the bagpipes and discovering the world through your eyes. The last few times we saw each other, I held you extra tight, my hugs lingered that much longer and you looked at me knowing. Knowing that the next time we saw each other you might not remember my daughter’s name. And that the time after that my husband’s name would be missing from the archives of your mind. And that soon, my name might be gone from your memory, too.

Au revoir, Papa. We will miss you and mourn you every day, but we will be okay. I don’t know if there’s an after-life, but I’d like to think there is and I hope you’re reunited with your parents, siblings and dear friends who’ve moved on from this plane to the next. You lost your own Papa when you were only ten years old, but for a guy who barely had a father figure growing up, you were a great father to me.

Thank you for sharing your passion for languages, travel and photography with me.  For the hours we spent together fishing, hunting for edible mushrooms or the perfect rock for your Japanese garden. Thank you for accepting me as I am and never judging my choices. For the newspaper articles and jokes you cut out and sent me snail mail. For always being kind and charming. For teaching me that it’s okay to be unabashedly yourself and that you’re never too old to learn a new skill and discover a new passion. 

And so, I will think of you every day and remember fondly listening to you play the guitar, the flute, the cello and the bagpipes; the joy you took fashioning bonsai trees, collecting sugar-molds, antique tools and keys. I will remember how much you loved your family and friends and continue to strive to be a better mother, wife, sister and friend to my loved ones. I promise to keep learning to play new instruments, master new languages, take up new hobbies, meet new people, and appreciate the world around me. And finally, to pass on your thirst for knowledge and joie-de-vivre to my daughter as you did to me. 

Au revoir, Papa. Je t’aime. See you on the flip side. 

Guy’s funeral will take place Tuesday, August 3, 2021 at 2 pm. at the Notre-Dame Cathedral in Ottawa, Canada. Family and friends are invited to join us for the celebration and to stick around afterwards to reminisce. Since the Cathedral is a very large church, we are allowed up to 240 people and so all are welcome (masks are compulsory).