Memoriam: Letter for Jacques

Jacques is dying.

At three in the morning, the phone in the room rings. Sonia dashes out of bed, and grabs it, I'm half-awake. She answers "Yes" a couple of times, and then adds "I'm on my way". She gets dressed, grabs the keys and leaves the room. I stay in bed, already tumbling back to sleep, baby Zak snores next to me in his bed.

Two hours later, I hear the bedroom door creak open, I hear the words I expect. "He died", Sonia says, and slowly climbs into bed.

Two days earlier we flew in, after her mother, told us he was in the hospital, and that it didn't look good. We got in Tuesday night, and went to go see him. I remember him as a fairly big man, he was always fighting his weight, like most of us, always sneaking in a cookie, or some chips, when he thought no one would find out. Of course, his wife always knew, and she dutifully scolded him, reminding him that his triple bypass didn't allow for frivolous culinary escapades.

We had a relationship divided across culture, language and religion. I was the boy who stole his daughter, converted her to Islam, and would one day surely take his little girl "back home" with me. I was barely out of my teens, and didn't help present my case, with the foolish rebelliousness of youth. Almost two decades later, we grew to a father, son-in-law relationship that had passed from ceasefire, into a more or less calm state. A few dinners during the year, Christmas celebrations, birthdays here and there marked with politeness, and talking about the weather. I don't know if he ever forgave me, but I hope after all the years, he learned to respect me a little, as I had him.

We landed in Montreal, and headed straight to Saint-Eustache Hospital. Sonia scrambled down the hallways, I carried Zak, we finally found his room, and entered. Her mom was there, and Jacques was in bed. We greeted each other. Jacques started stirring from sleep, as he heard us walking in. It was obvious then, that this was his deathbed, but of course, no one would utter those thoughts. Sonia went to her father, kissed his forehead, and held back the anxiousness, and tears from her voice. She announced to him, she was here, and how she had brought baby Zak and me with her.

Slowly losing his sight in the last year, Jacques was completely blind now, he was slowly cocking his head to the voices around him. I walked to the other side of his bed, and told him I was here. The dying frail man, slowly started lifting his hand from under his blanket. I could see that he was mustering what little energy he had left to shake my hand. Religion is shed, degrees disappear, in the end man only has his respect and dignity to hold on to. I slowly pulled the blanket over his trembling boney hand, and shook it softly.

He was slipping away, and as elusive as was becoming, we could still feel his will to be with his family. The man I knew, almost 6 feet tall, weighing 230 pounds, and demanding his daughter not run off with some "Muslim", lay before us now. He had disappeared into a 130 pound brittle, blind old man. He had survived heart-attacks, a daughter marrying a Muslim, the other a Jew, and in all his idiosyncrasies and worries of the day, still asked that his hand be shaken like a man. We may have never seen eye to eye, but in this moment, he was to me a father, just as my own.

Now, Sonia stood one one side of his bed, Zak and I at the other. I watched the dying man's daughter caress his forehead. Here, in front of her were the three men in her life, each a testament to the steps of her life. Her father dying - having carried her into this life, her husband - by her side in the moment, and baby Zak - her future. Life clings, life is bitter, and life is sweetness. Sonia spent the night with her father that night, along with her mother - the three of them in the emergency wing of the hospital, sleeping and waking until the morning. The next two days, was driving back and forth, stops between homes and the hospital.

It's the day after, and I'm sitting with Sonia and her Mom, at her parent's condo. I'm leaving to the airport, the family is making arrangements for the funeral next week. I ask her mom how she's doing.., she says it's hard. I can see that the shock hasn't set in yet, she'll crash soon, and hopefully Sonia can catch her, if she's not falling apart herself. Before I leave I tell her, that it's difficult for me to imagine and express what she must going through. I tell her that in my faith, we often have an expression that we save for moments of pain, and for moments of joy, and that I hope she may find some comfort in them, "This too, shall pass".

p.s. Jacques - I'm taking care of your little girl, like I promised I would.

Good-bye.

Your son-in-law;

Naeem