March 13 will be my father’s 15th Yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his passing. Since that time, I met and married the love of my life, survived having a plane crash onto the road in front of my car, celebrated my nephew and niece’s graduations from university, travelled to Italy, Israel, Rome, Amsterdam, Mexico, St. Lucia and California, attended my nephew’s wedding, recovered from two intestinal obstructions and retired from my 34-year career as a librarian. I’d say it’s been an eventful 15 years.
While there has been an abundance of ups and downs, nothing matches the sorrow I experienced in 2003 when my dad, Sidney Civkin, died at age 86. Many people who live into their 80s have suffered medical issues of some sort. My father? He never took a sick day in his life. And he rarely visited a doctor, despite being one himself, until his late 70s or early 80s when he began suffering from spinal stenosis. Then he developed dark, scaly skin, which dermatologists dismissed as being “nothing serious.” Until one day, at age 83, he noticed his ankles were really swollen and he felt really unwell. Long story short, he ended up in St. Paul’s Hospital emergency with end stage renal failure. Thrice-weekly dialysis followed, until he passed away nearly three years later.
My sister Linda and I were extremely devoted daughters. Despite having young children at home, Linda drove dad to dialysis three days a week, cooked for him, took him grocery shopping and spent endless hours with him. I picked him up from dialysis after I finished work and often took him for dinner or cooked for him. Linda and I spent time with him pretty much daily, during his last three years. When we’d ask him if he wanted to visit with one of his buddies, he would invariably say: “No, I’d rather hang out with you guys.”
Between his periodic blood infections and trips to the emergency, my sister and I were on high alert 24/7. Personally, I felt caught in a vice grip between the stresses of work and constantly worrying about my father. Every time the phone rang, especially late at night, I was certain it was some kind of emergency. Oddly enough, my father told me that the three years he was on dialysis, were some of the best years of his life. Why? Because he got to spend so much time with his daughters. The adoration was mutual.
When we lost dad in 2003, it felt like my world crumbled beneath my feet. I was absolutely devastated with grief. It took a good few years before I could think about him without crying or feeling unspeakably sad. I now know that grief never ends. It just gets different. Less acute. It no longer lives right below the surface. The memories are always present, though. And that’s how I honour my dad, by speaking and writing about him. As I always say, take every opportunity you can to tell your parents you love and appreciate them.
