Signs

By Gena Gerbier

My parents loved visiting us in The Village. They saw its evolution first hand as honorary residents since 1998 when I first moved here. My dad loved the small community feel of the low-rise building and the tree-lined cobblestone streets. I’m grateful to have memories of him here too.

Last October, my dad died at the age of 91. I was fortunate to be with him for the last six days of his life. When someone is deeply loved, their passing is never welcomed, but when every sign points toward the inevitable, acceptance becomes the only way to remain grateful for the time shared together.

Although he was in his nineties, those who knew my dad were surprised to learn of his passing. He lived his life with so much energy and joy that it was easy to think that he would simply keep going. He was a man of few words, but big on action. A reliable friend you could count on and the funny sibling who could always lighten the mood.

Up until an unexpected illness in August, he remained incredibly active, defying stereotypes around nonagenarians. He drove fast and steady. He led line-dancing flawlessly, maintained a steady exercise routine which included tai chi, weight-lifting and cycling, a sport he took up in his seventies.

Last September, he completed a 5K walk and this month would have marked his 10th legacy ride for the Great Cycle Challenge to raise funds for juvenile cancer research. His favorite hobby was playing the ukulele which he started in his late seventies and continued to perform with a group through a Jamaican Chinese social club. Needless to say he was far from average.

My mom and brothers had been by his side since his admission to the hospital. However, by the time I arrived, he had lost the ability to speak and communication was limited to a quick nod or subtle shake of his head in response to questions. His eyes soon remained closed but we knew he was listening.

One day we played music from one of his performances that had been posted on YouTube. Remarkably, his hands moved as though he was strumming the strings of his beloved ukulele. At times, he found the strength to raise an arm to gently conduct the rhythm. The following day, a close friend and fellow member of the group arrived with a guitar and sang some of his favorite songs. His body had weakened and his movement was more restrained but beneath the sheets we could see his feet quietly keeping time.

On his last day, the steady stream of visits continued. Two friends shared that they had each dreamt about him the night before. In one dream, a friend found him lying in a hospital bed and asked, “Gladstone, what you doing in hospital?!” Without missing a beat, he responded true to his sense of humor, “It’s not me!”

In another dream, he was racing down a hospital corridor wearing only his gown. When the friend asked him to wait, he responded frantically, “I can’t wait!” and continued running further and further away.

More stories, more laughter, and more tears shared as we reminisced about the man who never sought attention but attracted so much love. All the while, the steady rhythm of his breathing remained loud in the background. His body was shutting down, and he was drifting away while we waited.

Five days later, at my parents’ home, a ladder my father had left leaning against a wall, despite my mother’s repeated requests to position it on the floor, suddenly fell with a loud thump. She was nowhere near it. She knew he had finally acquiesced.

At that very moment, I was downstairs in his office. My father was never one for minimalism; he was a collector. He kept everything. Notes, drawings, calendars filled with daily entries, family photographs, greeting cards and tools. I stood staring at it all. Behind me, his treasured ukuleles hung on the wall and a guitar stood upright on the floor. Everything was just as he had left it. I didn’t want to disturb any of it. How does one clean up 91 years of being?

Suddenly, in the silence that surrounded me, I heard the warm twang from a single string. One note. Out of nowhere. I’m no musician, but I’ve had a guitar since I was 12 and can identify a G note. “G” was one of his nicknames and one of mine as well. My first thought, after “What was that?!” was simply, “Daddy, is that you?” and I smiled because I knew it was.