This past Father’s Day was a different one for me. This one hurt.
There weren’t any gifts, cards, or breakfasts-in-bed. My Pop isn’t at home to give gifts to anymore.
It’s funny to me that when we were growing up, all us kids wanted, more than anything else, was to be adults, to take responsibility, to be in charge. These days, I think a lot about the past. The present sucks.
When I was little, my Pop was the man. We didn’t have too many things in common, but hockey was our common bond. I think about shooting pucks into a milk crate in the driveway, age six. That’s how we spent a good amount of time when I was young, Pop and I. He was there, lit cigarette close at hand, waiting for me to miss and take another splintered chunk from the garage door – first to admonish me, then to show me what I did wrong so I didn’t do it again that day.
Hockey was something that drew me and Pop together, a tie that bound. He grew up in a big family and didn’t have the chance to play organized hockey when he grew up. We watched more games than I could count, both live and on TV. We’d comment on strategy, our likes and dislikes, why a player did what they did and whether it was good or not. Together, we’d sit there, watching.
Looking for patterns, looking for order in the chaos. Sometimes, it’s there. Sometimes, it’s not.
He took a lot of pride in seeing me play, even though I was never very good. Most parents would drop their kids off at the rink for practices. After all, who wants to see their kid doing line skates?
Pop did. Every time.
My friends always thought he was a gruff looking guy, with a big bushy white moustache and a tattoo on his forearm that showed itself when he’d come in and tie my skates, but I knew different. He would always have the truck ready and warmed up out front with the tailgate popped open so I could throw in my equipment – he called it “riggin’” - and jump in without having to walk through the cold. The tough-looking shell was gone.
We’d sing loudly along to old songs, Meat Loaf, The Who, John Lennon, laughing all the way. Dad was at the mine more often than not and I didn’t get to see him all the time, but these were our moments together, where the rest of the world didn’t matter.
We’d go fishing together in the summers – we’d never catch anything and I’d somehow find a way to lose all his hooks, baits and lures, but he never seemed to mind. Spending time with his boy seemed to be worth it.
I left Flin Flon for four years to study at university. When I came home for the summer, things seemed... off. Pop was beginning to do things that didn’t make sense. He would have mood swings, sometimes nasty ones, and he would begin to forget important things. He’d take out money from the bank, then forget where he put it. He’d go off for long drives and be unable to recall where he went or what he did.
It was clear something was wrong with Pop’s brain. After I graduated, I moved back to Flin Flon – something I swore I would never do as a kid – to help my mother look out for him.
Getting a job at The Reminder was a bonus.
From time to time, Pop would have small, fleeting moments of clarity, where the fog lifted and the path seemed clear. Those were somehow both the best and the most painful moments. They happened less and less going forward.
One of those was when, coming back from an early doctor’s appointment in The Pas, Dad – who at this point was beginning to forget decades-long friends – belted out every word of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”. I’d never heard him sing it before.
Last summer, Pop was at his lowest ebb. I’ll spare you more personal details, but often, he’d wake up in the wee hours, convinced he had to do something, and would wander away from home in the cold and dark. I’d wake up as soon as I’d heard the door shut. I’d give him about a 15-minute head start and go hunting for him, making guesses at where he would be. Looking for patterns, looking for order in the chaos. Sometimes, it’s there. Sometimes, it’s not.
Whenever I’d find him, I’d drive up as close as I could to him. I’d have the car ready, heat up and the radio on. Even if I was half asleep, I’d try to be as welcoming for him as he was for me years before.
He’d climb in and we’d head home, singing along to songs we didn’t know using words we didn’t hear.
Pop is in a home now. I don’t get the chance to see him often, but when I do, I try to coax out memories of the good times to give him – to give us both, I suppose – something to smile about.
Like Pop, all we can do is hold on to this moment for dear life. The next moment can be foggy. The present may hurt, but it’s what matters.
Not long ago, I found a yellow miner’s helmet and an old set of Pop’s coveralls, the uniform of my old working class hero. I choked up. I put them in his favourite smoking spot for safekeeping. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
Once, when I travelled out of town to see him, he didn’t know who I was.
He might not have those memories anymore, Export A greens and slapshots in the driveway or belting out “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” on the way home, but I do. I hope I always will. I’ll hold them close to my heart as long as I can.
Happy Father’s Day, Pop. I love you and I miss you – and I hope, more than anything, deep down, you know that.
You weren’t perfect - but to me, you are still great.
If you, a loved one or a friend are dealing with dementia, email me. You can find the address on the left side of this page or on our website.
