On Loss, Grief, Memory, Family and Radical Change

I realized my father was going to die on my 28th birthday — September 10th, 2013. For most of the year my dad, Richard Henderson, had been undergoing treatment for lung cancer — a disease I thought doctors had managed to successfully curb with a combination of chemo and some other, more experimental treatments. This was before receiving a call from my brother while I was at work that Tuesday. He was audibly distraught and insisted that I come home, unsure of how much time our dad had left. This was news to me and I panicked. At this particular time I was working as a television producer in Toronto — and had been for the previous 7 years — for a national entertainment program. Early September was our busiest time of year. It was when the Toronto International Film Festival took place — a huge event for the city and easily one of the biggest film festivals in the world. For me, it was a favorite. It would be abnormal to work less that 12 hours in a day for the duration and I loved the excitement and workload. My birthday would always land amidst all of the chaos — annually rendering it pretty much obsolete. But that day, as I entered my parent’s bedroom, I saw my dad — someone I truly believed was impenetrable — laying awake and alive but pretty much motionless — and he reminded me of my special day. “You have to let me know what you want for your birthday, bud,” he forced out of his impaired chest. This particular situation was as apt an example of my dad’s character as any — always thinking of others before himself, even on his death bed. I was shaken. Not by the comment but by his appearance. You have to understand that before this moment, I was certain he was going to make it — and how could I not have — what with all of the positive reinforcement provided by he and my mother and having seen him no more than two weeks prior acting like his usual self, cracking jokes while feeling, understandably, fatigued from the slew of chemicals inhabiting his body. But here I was, getting a glimpse of my sick father on the brink of passing on — long before I was prepared to say goodbye. I watched him take his last breath nine days later.

Though I still have not seen it — and likely never will — I will never forget the movie ‘August: Osage County.’ You know, the dysfunctional family drama based on the Pulitzer winning play and starring Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts. I will never forget it because I decided that, shortly after learning about my dad’s deteriorating condition, I was going to produce the coverage of the red carpet premiere of this film — because it was in my schedule and my work was somehow still a priority. I was in shock — also, I preferred avoidance over confrontation — so yeah, why not delay the inevitable and distract myself with screaming fans, celebrities and television cameras — it sure beats staring certain death in the face. I remember trying to focus on the task at hand but most likely appeared to be on the brink of an emotional boil over. I do know I was despondent in these moments — which isn’t a great look when you’re in the middle of producing a live broadcast. After all of the glitz and glam, I took the train home. I always found solitude on the train — there was something peaceful and serene about it — and staring out the window at the varied landscapes between the urban density of Toronto and sprawling suburbia of Pickering I’d seen countless times, I struggled with the idea that life, as I knew it, was about to change — drastically.

The thing about death is that it can sometimes take a while to show up — even when you’re convinced it’s momentary. The time between acknowledging my dad’s impending death and his actual death was, in reality, only nine days — but it felt more like weeks, months even. It was me and my family getting a real-time glimpse into the destructive ways your own body can turn on you — and I now know that actual time can become a bit blurry in instances such as this. As much as he wanted to be at home through it all, the stress on my mother was too much and so he was taken to a nearby hospital where a revolving door of visitors in the form of friends and family came through to drop off casserole dishes full of carbs for us and to say goodbye to him — not to mention witness my dad writhe in pain while still insisting on being a crowd pleaser and the funniest guy in the room. And in true ‘Josh-at-28’ fashion — I decided to go back to work in the big city for the two days that followed my birthday — feigning interest in the lives of the rich and famous while cancer continued to wreak havoc on my dad. If I was faced with that decision again there is absolutely no way I would leave his side for those 48 hours. Hindsight, though.

My distaste for hospitals and the thought of being surrounded by sickness is simultaneously juvenile and very real. I will periodically think back to my dad’s hospital room — and, aside from visualizing his weakening physical presence — the distinct smell is one thing that always comes flooding back. It’s like a mix of rotten vegetables, hand sanitizer and bile. But if the smell and surroundings weren’t unappealing enough — hospital food will surely seal the deal. But that became a moot point as my father’s appetite completely disappeared over those nine days — which, in a whirlwind of personal heartbreak, may have broken my heart the most. My dad was a cook — a very good cook. He loved eating food almost as much as he loved cooking food for others to enjoy. His safe space was our kitchen — safe for him, unsafe for anybody who came near it while he was in the zone. When I close my eyes and visualize him, he’s standing in the kitchen in an apron holding a whisk in one hand and chef’s knife in the other — in a very non-threatening way, I should add. On weekends, and more specifically holidays, my dad would spend the majority of his time in the kitchen — which also happened to be within eye and earshot of whatever golf tournament was on the television. The most common smells in our house were typically of the Cajun variety; blackened seafood, andouille sausage, fried chicken — heavily spiced dishes emitting odors that would stick to your clothing for days. Oftentimes, I would linger on the outskirts of the kitchen, careful not to trespass, intently observing him in his element. Although I lost my dad too soon, I am thankful to have inherited his love of food — he taught me the joys of nourishment, sharing and learning. I am forever indebted to him for many things, but these lessons surrounding food have been and will continue to be invaluable. Being in the kitchen and cooking has consistently helped me cope with my grief. And I wish I could cook for him just once more. The last thing I fed to my father was crushed ice from my hand after he was through with solid food.

One thing I’ve learned since my dad passed is how nothing — and I mean NOTHING — can prepare you for losing a parent. There’s something very destructive about this particular form of grief — his death affected everything in my life. Some of the immediate effects were in my personality — I admittedly became quieter and much more private, though one of my proudest moments came at his wake when I was able to deliver a speech without emotionally disintegrating. My dad was not only a great role model but he was proud of me and wasn’t afraid to vocalize it. He had my back — and when your biggest fan is suddenly gone, how do you recover? He and I were so different in so many ways; we argued over politics, he was aggressively opinionated and brazenly conservative — but we understood one another on an emotional level and he always encouraged me to be myself. I saw through his sometimes tough exterior to the sweet, caring, sensitive, loving — if not sometimes sad, angry, temperamental and impulsive — man beneath. Now, that’s not to say he wasn’t authentic —because he absolutely was. He was charismatic, charming, funny, smart and interesting. He commanded a room — which is definitely one of the reasons he loved hosting dinner parties — cooking AND socializing, that was a dream come true for my dad. I think I had — and may still have — some of that myself. I am and have always been a pretty textbook introvert but for most of my adult life, I would go out of my way to surround myself with people, the more, the merrier — friends, one might call them. This changed after his death. I became more reclusive and detached from the social situations I, at one time, would have dropped everything else for. But it also provided some perspective. I had smoked cigarettes since age 16—that stopped, for obvious reasons. I had gone from college directly into an office job — and while the work and experience was great, I started to question my career path and what I wanted the future to look like. I had spent so much of my time maintaining friendships and some of those relationships began to feel empty if not a little uncomfortable and forced, so I limited my efforts in that department. I started to exercise more — running became a new addiction. My own mental, physical and emotional well-being became a primary focus and —while I still have so much work to do in those areas— it might be the most important decision I’ve ever made.

The earliest memories I have of my dad also happen to be preserved in the form of a video documenting my third birthday party. In a year where I received all of the Ghostbusters toys a kid could ever want, I was clueless to the fact that I would come to cherish this video most. My dad is behind the camera providing commentary — and his signature wit is on full display. My brother is the performer in our family so the video features a lot of him — jumping in front of the camera, singing Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller,’ shooting toy guns. I’m mostly just out of frame, sucking on my fingers and pleading with my father to let me use the camera. He never allows it. There is only one moment where he hands it off — and it’s so he can run after me and the other kids, like a hulking monster — picking me up and flipping me upside down over his shoulder. This moment is particularly emotional to relive. In it, you get a sense of his expressiveness, exuberance and heart. There were several middle aged men with children at that party but he was the only one who really joined in on the fun with the kids. I don’t think he ever lost his playfulness and looking back I am amazed at how unabashed he was as an adult. And while my upbringing was a pretty traditional one, he taught me that men can be emotional, complex and thoughtful and in this particular case, the ease at which he displays genuine enthusiasm is something that really set him apart. You can also tell how comfortable and safe I feel in his arms. I was running from him, but I absolutely wanted to be caught.

Richard aka Rick aka Ricky but mostly referred to as Hendo (or in my case, Papa Hendo) served as a police officer in Toronto for 31 years. He joined the force at 19 — two years later he and my mother married. I only ever heard a handful of stories from his many years as a cop — and that was likely intentional. If there was ever a gathering at our house that included cops who worked alongside my dad, you could assume that we’d get to hear at least one. Most involved pranks on fellow officers or drinking too much beer before a shift, but I do have a couple favorites: a) his multiple accidents while patrolling on a motorcycle — one of which involved him crashing into a parked car —and b) jumping on the back of a perpetrator who was much bigger than him, putting him in a sleeper hold, knocking him out and after the arrest having to go straight to the hospital to get hepatitis shots because he’d been bitten several times. These particular experiences and others like them are legitimately terrifying and yet he’d always manage to have everyone in hysterics when they were detailed. He was a great storyteller on top of being a great fit as a police officer. He truly cared about people and worked hard but also didn’t take himself too seriously or feel the need to posture in any way. On top of his police work, he would go on to have a hand in programs such as MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) and HOBY (Hugh O’Brian Youth Leadership) — and even taught classes at a local college. He was, of course, a favorite among his students. He then retired at age 50 and founded Charity Golf Ontario — a nonprofit that combined two of his favorite things: golfing and philanthropy. I’m grateful he was able to spend the rest of his days continuing to do work that felt meaningful to him and made a real difference in the lives of others.

One place we spent a lot of time at growing up was our family cottage. It was located on Wollaston Lake, east of Ontario’s Kawartha Lakes region and situated right on the water. My grandfather bought the land in the 1970’s and — along with a few helpers — built the structure that would come to be known as ‘The Barn’ himself. Many of my fondest childhood memories are from time spent there — tube rides, goofing around with friends, fishing derbies, ghost stories, epic cribbage matches, family picnics, boat trips for ice cream, target practice with grandpa’s rifle, grilling, bonfires — just quality time in the great outdoors with the people I loved most. After my grandmother passed away and as my grandfather got older, my dad took over as cottage caretaker. It was a responsibility he took great pride in. After going away to school and once I moved out on my own, I could expect a phone call from him around mid-April every year to discuss summertime bookings for the cottage. I would always get first dibs and would usually snag the May and August long weekends — both of which would become fun-filled annual gatherings for my friends and I. This, again, was significant of the joy he found in others contentment. The excitement, anticipation and appreciation myself, my brother and our friends expressed with regards to time at the cottage was something he basked in — it was very clear to me that it may have been the only reason he continued to endure the insane amount of upkeep the property demanded. My mom, brother and I weren’t so conscientious and — for a number of different reasons — were forced to sell it two years after he passed.

That brings me to he and my mom. They were married for 42 years — an astoundingly long time considering my dad was only 63 when he died. Growing up I had a number of friends who were children of divorce, some of whom rarely saw their fathers, if at all. I felt as though my upbringing — specifically having parents who clearly loved each other as much as they loved their kids — meant I’d won some sort of life lottery. It wasn’t always idyllic but for the most part it was. I think my friends were sometimes caught off guard by the openness of my family and their ability to make others feel welcome. My dad would engage everyone in conversation — a trait that my teenage self often found annoying but over time definitely grew to love. He was also the disciplinarian. And though my brother and I were pretty well behaved, we did have our moments — and the punishments were often swift and stern, though never in an intimidating or violent way. It usually consisted of a serious talking to in hopes of teaching us an important lesson and, according to my mom, tended to privately transform into intense guilt as he mulled over the severity of his actions. As a couple, my parents exemplified what it meant to love unconditionally. They had a unique dynamic that can be traced back to when they first met as teenagers. My dad was the goofball, quick to make a joke — he was the class clown and eventually a high school dropout who got into a considerable amount of trouble and who also seemed to be somewhat critical of authority — kind of ironic considering his chosen profession. He was the bad boy alpha male epitomized. My mom, on the other hand, was the good girl — she came from a good family, got good grades, became a school teacher, was and remains a devout Christian — a model citizen if there ever was one. I know that a major moment in my dad’s story was not just meeting the love of his life in my mom but becoming close with her parents. I know they both played a very critical role in his transition from adolescence to adulthood and further still, fatherhood.

I’m not entirely sure what I am trying to accomplish by writing all of this — and I hope it doesn’t seem too self-serving — but it’s really the first time I’ve tried to document particular memories and thoughts since his death. On September 19th it will be four years since he passed away — and I don’t know if I can honestly say that its gotten any easier. When you’re confronted with grief and sadness of this magnitude, I don’t think it ever disappears. I do, however, believe you become better equipped to handle it over time. I still think of my dad on a daily basis. I think about how amazing it would have been if he had joined my brother and I for our trip to Scotland. I imagine the overwhelming joy he’d express upon meeting his granddaughter for the first time, swelling with pride as he smiled first at her then my mom. I think about how he would’ve reacted to me telling him I was going to propose to my now wife and how proud he would have been to see us get married — his speech would have been top notch. In the hospital he told her to take care of me — if he could only see for himself how she’s followed through on that request. I have these thoughts and they simultaneously devastate me and make me grateful to have been so positively affected by him as to even have them in the first place. In the past two years I’ve effectively moved all of my belongings from Canada to the United States — and in the process of doing so, I’ve gotten rid of quite a bit. One thing I have held onto is an old iPhone I no longer use with several saved voicemail messages he’d left for me throughout the years. The last one is from July 2013, two months before he died. On occasion I will listen to the mostly mundane, innocuous digital time capsules and memories of him will come rushing back. Every single message begins with his favored greeting “hey bud!” — two words I’ve since tattooed on my wrist as a constant reminder that he never left my side.