My Father and I by Naguib Kerba

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.