The Hermit Poet

I’ve found it difficult lately to post. Partly out of a certain lethargy that creeps in when facing another week of job and PhD applications, and partly out of recent changes that are happening in my family.

My father is now in the hospital in Penticton indefinitely. He was recently diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease), but has been suffering from its effects for the past 8 months. If you’re not familiar with ALS, it’s a vicious disease that shuts down nerves and muscles throughout the body, eventually stopping the lungs and heart. The last thing to go is the brain — your mental capacity is retained through the whole process. In a sense, you become a prisoner in a body that no longer functions. Typically most ALS patients live 3-5 years from the time of their diagnosis, but in my father’s case the symptoms are advancing far faster than normal. Most likely he will be gone in a year or less, perhaps as quickly as a few weeks or a month.

As a family, we’re coping reasonably well. It’s hard on all of us, but in a way we’ve been prepared for a while. My father suffers a variety of other health problems (Addison’s disease, diabetes, low blood pressure, and obesity) — he has always told us that he would probably die early. And, in a sense this awareness of his mortality has haunted me from the time of his father’s death over ten years ago. When I talked to him then, I recall feeling strongly that one day I would be the one dealing with my father’s death. Thankfully we’ve had a great relationship and friendship through the years — and this is something that I am grateful for. As you might have noticed, my father was often the first to comment on my posts, occasionally to call something into question or force me to reconsider, but usually to let me know that he liked what he was reading. I miss these comments already — being hospital-bound, my father no longer has access to the internet and his hand mobility is fading. For the time being, I make tripsback to Penticton (a 5 hour drive) and visit him in the hospital on weekends. He can still speak, but is noticeably slower and more slurred.

At times like this, I am grateful that I come from a strong religious and spiritual background. I am thankful for the peace I find in a belief in the eternal nature of the family and that relationships forged here can continue on in the hereafter. I will be sad to see him go, but know that he will not be far away.

He is lucky, or perhaps better said, blessed to be in Penticton – his hometown. He still has many friends in the area and they have been there at every step. Their support means a great deal to the family and especially to my father. And he is not facing these trials alone — he found out recently that his best friend Wilson is also dying, suffering from an inoperable cancer of the esophaugus. The two of them have had a number of conversations now and I think that it has been good for both of them. When the path ahead appears dark, it is good to have a friend by your side.

How am I doing? There’s a part of me that has felt this day coming for a long time. Arguably almost 70% or more of my poetry is in some way a pre-emptive elegy for my father. I have dealing with the threat of his passing for years. Still, when it suddenly looms so close, it seems surreal and I alternate between calm acceptance and a deep sadness. Over the years my father and I have become close friends. He has been a faithful reader and supporter of my poetry. He has given me sound advice and the occasional kick in the pants to get me going. I hear from many people that he has always bragged about me and been proud of what I am doing as a writer and a teacher. And so now, as we face this impending separation, it becomes more and more apparent just how much his presence has meant to me.

Looking over my poetry, I realize as well that my father has become more than just my father — he has become in some sense a representation of myself. A shadow sometimes. An avatar to explore my world from a distance. A third person to examine myself. Even after he has passed on, he will remain close to me in my writing and teaching — whatever I write and wherever I go. His presence in my writing keeps me honest, even as I change and grow and move on to wherever this poetry and this life carry me.

In a world where so many writers and artists have struggled with their fathers, I am grateful that I have had a father who was open-minded enough to accept and encourage my love of language and poetry. In fact, when I announced that I was leaving my career as a computer games programmer, my father’s first comment was “Welcome back to the fold!”

For now we are learning to laugh and enjoy the time we have. Yes, there will be sorrow, but there should also be room for happiness — for the blessing of this life together and the times which we can continue to carry with us, as well as the hope of the life in the world beyond. There are good memories still to be made. Regardless of where the road leads, there is no need to walk it alone.