The last thing my father did before he slipped into the coma
that would lead to his death a month later was wink at my mother. They were at
their cottage on the lake, it was morning, and he didn’t feel too well, a
headache –in reality bleeding on the brain—so he was going to lie down for a
bit. He caught her eye across the room and he winked at her. They had guests,
old friends from long ago, a neighbour couple from back in the day; friends who
had been there to help them get through the death of my brother so long ago.
Now they would be there to help my mother through another sorrow.
The wink spoke volumes. The wink said, “I love you. I am
fine. I will be right back. It’s okay. Take care of yourself. Enjoy the
sunshine.” The wink was a long-standing pattern of communication between them.
Always from my father to my mother. Never the other direction; I am guessing
that my mother, like me, never mastered the art of the wink, could never carry
it off with the naturel complicity and genuine affection it demands. I look
like I have something in my eye when I attempt a wink.
The wink was their way of communicating in a crowd, across a
room, without words.
My father was a quiet man, but he believed in the power of
communication. He belonged to the Toastmasters Club, and made clear to all his
children the importance of effective communication. Think about what
you want to say. Write down a few notes. Be prepared. Being nervous about
speaking in front of a group is unnecessary. The key aspect is the people
you are talking to, let go of your focus on yourself and think about what they
need to hear.
My father even managed a metaphorical post-mortem wink. He
scrawled a few point-form notes using a black Sharpie pen on the outside of a
manila file folder. The folder was labeled “In Case of Death” and we came
across it in his desk drawer a day after he died while looking for the
inevitable paperwork death brings on. He had written these lines a few years
before his death, perhaps after his first brush with melanoma, or maybe after
the death of someone he knew. My uncle
made plaques with these words so we could all carry them forward with us. When
I read them I feel like my father is winking at me.
Yesterday my son came to get me in my office at the college
where I teach and he is a student. He noticed the plaque. “That’s really nice!”
he said, so I told him the story of the file folder. I hope the wink can get
passed on to another generation. Today would be my father’s 92nd
birthday. He has been gone for a quarter century. I can still see him wink.
Here are his words:
-cry a little, but please, not long
-celebrate the good times, which were many and often
-be thankful for all the love that kept us going in the bad
times.
-family ties are very special and precious
-people, not things, are what matter
-people, not things, are what matter
