naguib - Books We Love Publishing Inc.
This is a Saturday morning in
mid-August 2025. I find myself drawn to the keyboard and just typing away. What
began as a simple exercise has turned into a small mission. I'm listening to
the headphones I successfully paired with my computer on the first try. I’m
already having a good day with technology. How much better can life get?
I am listening to Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, or as
it is appropriately known, Piano Concerto No. 5. Most people probably recognize
it instantly. To me, it reminds me of my father, who passed away ten years ago.
The day he died, my wife and I visited him at the hospital. He looked unkempt,
dishevelled, and unshaven—something he would never have accepted for himself in
any of his nearly ninety years. Dad was always impeccably clean-shaven and
often overdressed.
The nurse on duty explained the different breathing
stages at the end of life, and we were only one stage away from the final one.
The last stage, once it began, would give us time to get back to the hospital
to say our final goodbyes. The nurses would call us once the final stage
started. My wife, Donna, and I decided that, because the dog at home was alone without
a break to go out and pee, and she would be suffering, we needed to go back and
would return once we received the call. We drove the forty-five minutes back to
the house in mid-afternoon, with me thinking about how badly Dad looked, and I
felt uncomfortable leaving him like that.
That uncomfortable feeling worsened throughout the day.
By ten thirty that evening, I was too restless, so I had to go to the hospital
to shave him. I arrived after eleven. He was still breathing the same way as
when we left him earlier that afternoon. He remained uncommunicative, but I
understood that we could still communicate with the patient, even if we didn't
know exactly what they were taking in at that moment; they were still receiving
it.
I started shaving Dad
and chatted with him about the Leafs' win that night, a rare occasion, but I
figured, as a long-time Leafs fan, he would appreciate hearing about their victory.
I also played the Emperor Concerto, knowing it was one of his favourite pieces.
The other was a
song written by my son Chris and his cousin Adam called ‘Sailing Home.’ Chris
was in British Columbia, 4,500 kilometres away, performing a gig at the Grey
Cup for the Atlantic Schooners. When they heard it was time to say goodbye to
“Pops,” they rushed back instead of staying for the rest of the party. They
never did make it, but Tara had called Chris, and he said his goodbye remotely.
Sailing Home has become a
farewell song, played in memory of loved ones who have passed away. It has
since touched many lives. It was even honoured with a special choreographed
dance to honour Chris.
Once I shaved Dad, I felt better; he looked presentable
in a way he would have approved, given his situation. The nurses reminded me
that the next stage was still a while away and told me to go home and rest, as
the following day would be long. I did as they asked.
I was home for just half an hour before I received that
dreaded call. We got into the car and headed back, only to discover that he had
passed away a few minutes earlier. I suppose he wasn’t ready to go, despite how
he looked. My shaving his stubble was, in hindsight, a way of saying that we’ve
got this — that we will be alright — and that Mom was also in good hands. Not
that he ever needed our permission to do anything; it was a thing people think
is thoughtful.
A couple of weeks ago a friend send me information on a popcorn flower. (above left) Members of my garden club sometimes bring in unusual plants. Lower left is a hanging cucumber tree. And one of our members has a mouse plant (right, which I think is kinda creepy because the "mice" look like slugs.) 
.jpg)
