like the sky, spread over everything.

on the first weekend of july 2013, as most people were basking in the glory of the first hot, summer days, i drove to the kingston general hospital in kingston, ontario, and was told that my step-dad had esophageal cancer.

he could no longer eat or drink, had lost almost 30 pounds, and had suffered a small stroke.  we were told by the doctors that the cancer had spread to his surrounding lymph nodes but not to any other major organs. they inserted a feeding tube in his nose, and, later, in his stomach. he was in the hospital for 10 days before we were able to bring him home.

the doctors wouldn’t tell us what to expect in terms of my paps' life expectancy. what one doctor did say was that he’d seen patients with esophageal cancer live anywhere from 3 months to 5 years. though we tried to remain hopeful, we also couldn’t help using those numbers to figure out the average. it seemed safe to assume that we had at least 2 years left together. after all, he was only 56 years old, fit, and, otherwise, in good health.

as we started to try to wrap our heads and hearts around what was happening, my paps began a series of 3 treatments of a type of radiation therapy called brachytherapy, which, we were told, would help shrink the tumour in his esophagus and allow him to eat and drink on his own again. but the treatments didn’t work. so we waited. for the next series of treatments. for chemotherapy. for maybe a surgery. for the doctors to figure out the best plan of action. for someone to make my paps better.

in the meantime, there were visits from home-care nurses. he continued to eat through the feeding tube in his stomach. he read, and went for little walks up and down the road outside my parents’ house. he played with the neighbour’s dog. we'd sit on my parents' bed and he'd tell us stories. he didn’t want us telling too many people. he was going to get better, he said.

on august 15th, my mom drove him to ottawa to get a PET scan, which, from what i understand, was to help determine whether or not the cancer had spread to any areas aside from the ones we already knew about. when they got back home from ottawa, he began to feel unwell.

in the very early hours of monday, august 19th, after a few days of not feeling well, his condition worsening, we brought my paps back to the ER. he was confused, hallucinating. he'd fallen over and i'd had to lift him up and carry him back to bed. the doctors in the ER couldn’t figure out why any of this was happening.  they did some tests.  they didn’t know what was wrong. we suggested that perhaps he'd had another stroke. they didn’t think so. they mentioned the word delirium. they wanted to keep him so he stayed overnight at the hospital.

the following morning, when we arrived at the hospital, he appeared to be sleeping. he wasn’t.  he'd fallen into a coma. no one had noticed that my paps had fallen into a coma.

when we realized what had happened, a team of nurses and doctors rushed him to an isolation room.
the running team is what they’re called. like a scene from a TV show. with doctors and nurses, frantic and yelling. people running. noise. chaos. medical terms i didn’t understand. my mom and me, in the corner, crying, in disbelief. other people in the ER, grateful to not be us.

how is this our lives?

they inserted a breathing tube down his throat.
they rushed him in for an emergency head scan.
they rushed him up to the ICU.
wait here.  we’ll come get you when he’s settled.

how is this our lives?

things are not good.  we still don’t know what’s wrong with your father but if you have family to call - people who would want to see him - you should do that now.  

my paps died the following day.
surrounded by our cousin cathy, her husband joe, my mom and me.
"surrounded" is maybe not the right word.
"engulfed" might be more appropriate.

august 21st, 2013
the day we lost our anchor.
the day our ship went missing at sea.

it’s been over 4 and a half month now.  nearly 5.
does that sound like a long time?
it doesn't feel like it.

it's still almost impossible to believe.

how? 
how is this real?
what the fuck has happened to my family? 
we spent 26 years loving this man, and we don’t get to say goodbye?
that can’t be right.
there must be a mistake.  
there has to be.

find a way to come back, paps.  please.  please, find a way.

we need him. we’re not a family without him. we're just 2 people. 2 people isn't a family; it's just 2 people.

give me back my paps!
you mother fucking assholes, give my paps back!

yes. there is still disbelief. and anger. and tears. there are still lots of tears.

but, somehow, i'm a functioning human being again, which is more than i could have said in the first 2 months.  i work.  i answer email.  i buy groceries.  i talk to friends.  all signs point to a functioning human being.

when i found out that my paps was sick, i wanted to make videos of him telling stories. it seems to be in my nature to want to make things, to document. and he was a fantastic storyteller. the best. i wanted his stories on video so my mum and i would have them. so they would always be with us. but everything happened so fast. and then it was too late. the only video i have is the one featured in this video below, of him telling us a silly story about a man he worked with. something about a sex change. i'm not even really sure what he's talking about. it doesn't matter.

the day i recorded that video, i had my phone on my lap and didn’t want him to know he was being recorded, which explains why you can’t see him all that well.  still, i’m grateful for that video.  grateful to hear his voice, to see his eyes, to see him move.

i guess i just always want to remember what this period was like.
so i made this video.
not that i'm likely to ever forget...

and i wondered about sharing it.  and then i remembered something elizabeth gilbert said:
deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. when you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. but if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope.

i haven't moved on.
i'm still in the forest.
but maybe you're in the forest too.
and maybe it will help to know
that you're not there alone.

the song in the video is "blue spotted tail" by fleet foxes.
the title of the video is from a grief observed by c.s. lewis