Remembrance Day and
the Perfect Gift
By Nancy Rorke
I have a confession
to make. I’ve always been intuitive. I inherited it from my father, which is
ironic because he doesn’t believe that I’m his. I’ve never believed him. It led
to a tumultuous and complicated relationship.
Even though his
disdain of me created a miserable childhood, almost a decade after we stopped
talking, I forgave him. After I mailed him a reconciliation letter, we began a
new relationship. But even then, he wanted a DNA test. I refused.
After my cousin
published our family tree, I shared it, along with family stories, with my dad.
It gave us something safe to talk about. We both love history.
“You
know more about my family than I do,” he often said.
In
the spring of 2010, I woke up with the feeling that even though my father lived
on his own and was in fair health, this would be his last Father’s Day.
Even if he didn’t
love me, I wanted him to know that I’d always loved him. What special gift
could I give a man who had everything? I decided to compile all the old family
photos and other memorabilia that I could track down into a memory book.
By mid-May, I
borrowed my paternal grandmother’s photo album and began scanning old photos.
My cousin Ralda, mailed me copies of all her photos including those of my
father’s beloved grandparents.
Glory, another
cousin, had become the keeper of the family memories. She mailed me a photo of
my grandfather, Edgar Rorke, and copies of postcards that our grandparents,
Gertrude and Edgar had exchanged during WWI. She knew the addresses of every
place our grandmother had ever lived, as well as where Edgar was buried.
We contacted
cemeteries about our great-grandparents, great aunt, and Edgar. I took photos
of all the graves to verify dates, and of all the residences.
My mother told me
that my paternal grandfather died of tuberculosis and that’s why; they
vaccinated me against it when I was born with a lung infection. I have a scar
on my left shoulder. Edgar and I are linked forever.
Glory shared Edgar’s story
with me. He’d caught tuberculosis from the war.
With scanning the
photos and fixing them, taking pictures of the graves and residences, and
trying to compile all the memorabilia, I never finished the memory book in time
for Father’s Day.
Two months later, we were told that my ninety-year-old father had a
stroke. The day after Thanksgiving, the hospital admitted him again. At 9:00
a.m., my older brother phoned me.
“Because of the stroke, Dad can’t take care of himself. We have to find
a nursing home for him.”
By 5:00 p.m., my younger sister
called. My father had brain cancer and wasn’t expected to live. In late
October, they admitted him to palliative care.
Between visits to see my dad, I continued to spend every other moment
completing the memory book.
Every
visit, I brought him a gift. One week I brought him a CD and discovered he’d
stopped listening to music. Another week, I brought him his favourite snack
foods and realized that he’d stopped eating. I wanted to celebrate my father’s
ninety-first birthday early in December ‘cause I knew he’d never make it to
January 14. I begged my older siblings repeatedly, but they said no.
Time slipped away along with my father’s health. With the weekly drive
to Toronto, there just wasn’t enough time to finish the book. I decided to take
it to my father anyway. He couldn’t read the documents, so I resorted to
bringing him the old photos, along with childhood photos of our family.
When I showed him the photo of his grandparent’s last residence, he
said, almost in a whisper, “That’s my grandparent’s house.” And, when he saw
his grandfather Timothy’s photo, he held his breath. “That’s grandpa.”
I smiled inwardly. I’d finally brought him something he loved. And then
I showed him the photo of Edgar, and his father’s grave. My dad’s eyes widened.
He didn’t say a word. He looked down at the floor to hide his tears.
Thoughts bombarded me. You idiot.
Why would you bring a photo of his father’s grave? He’s dying. He doesn’t want
to see photos of graves. What were you thinking?
Finally, he spoke. “My father’s funeral happened three days before my
ninth birthday, and I’ve never known where he was buried.”
On Remembrance Day in 2010, Dad left the hospital. My older sister
drove him to the cemetery, and he stood at his father’s grave for the first
time in eighty-one years. Finally, I’d given him the perfect gift.
Every November 11 before that, I mourned the loss of lives due to war.
But that year, it became personal. I’d never had a grandfather because of the
war. Now, I wept for the grandfather I never knew, and for my father who would
soon join him.
Posted on behalf of Nancy Rorke
