The gentle vibration of my cell phone notified me of my grandfather’s death. At a most inconvenient time. I could feel its taunting buzz against my skin, daring me to answer during parent-teacher. I pressed silence with as much force as one can exert using a blackberry, missing the days when I could actually slam down a receiver.
Poppy had slipped into unconsciousness two days earlier while decorating a Christmas tree, my father at his bedside. He told Dad that it wasn`t like Christmas without his Mauri. He had hoped not to make it to the holidays, but it didn`t look like it would pan out for him. He didn`t like to think of Mauri alone on Christmas. They hadn`t spent one apart in the 67 years they`d been married before cancer had stolen her the previous spring. Dad played Pop`s favourite Christmas carols on his guitar, and reminisced about Christmases past until Poppy fell asleep for the last time, the family Christmas tree star clutched in his frail hands.
I had spent the past two days and nights debating when to make the trip back home to Chapel Arm, Newfoundland. I suspected it would be my last. Maybe that was why I hesitated to book my flight. Maybe I could will him to be o.k. by refusing to take any action suggesting the contrary. Or maybe I was just afraid to miss parent teacher interviews. At any rate, it seemed like I had too much on my plate to deal with a death that day.
Poppy had been suffering from a “touch of the bone cancer”`for quite some time. I remember vividly the day he called me up to deliver the bad news. Poppy usually didn`t call himself. Nanny would telephone, and he would interrupt and make his comments from across the room. “Ask Jan when she`s coming to see us again” or “`tell Jan that Victor is dead again on Young and The Restless”. Then one day, it was his voice on the other end telling me that the doctors said he has a touch of bone cancer. This time it was my grandmother interjecting in the background.
“Ken, you got the same thing as I have. Stop complaining. As soon as I get something, you go and get it, too. It`s like you want attention.”
“`The same thing you have, do I. Last time I checked, you don`t have a prostate. That`s where mine started”, he confided to me.
“Well, my cancer is worse than yours. The doctors are giving me the chemotherapy for mine.”
“`Jesus Mauri! Everything is a competition with you. You even have to die first, for Christ sakes! For your information, they told me not to even bother with the chemotherapy. I`m fucked.” He was triumphant.
“`Stop swearing Ken. Jan doesn`t want to listen to that kind of talk.”
That conversation was a year ago, and we had all settled back into our daily routines, forgetting about the dark shadow of cancer that threatened to cover the sun. Besides, Poppy`s stoic attitude along with the fact that he could chop a cord of wood and beat my six year old at wii bowling before 7 a.m. convinced me that the old man was invincible. He told me one day that he ate so much healthy fish that he couldn`t understand how he could have caught the cancer. He told me that he saw a program on CBC that said that omega 3 fatty acids found in fish could protect you. I told him that was fish like salmon, not the salt and deep fried cod with chips he ate daily. Well, it`s too late to worry about it now, he reasoned sipping on drambuie, his preferred nightcap.
Indestructible, unflappable, invincible. He`d survived 4 years as a mine sweeper during WII. He`d survived almost seventy years of my grandmother. All reasons why my vibrating phone sent shocks through my body as if in the wake of a sudden and inexplicable tragedy rather than the death of a sick, old man. The phone was still pulsing in my pocket like an electronic grim reaper. If I flipped it open, perhaps my ring tone would be amazing grace or some such song that signalled death. What the fuck, I remember thinking, am I supposed to do now.
In the absence of a suitable answer, I carried on with my conference, ignoring the offending phone and the fact that my dad needed me. I would like to pretend that I wanted to avoid the inevitable announcement. It would sound better to say that I was too distraught to even face the news. In reality, it was a bizarre adherence to social nicieties and a sense of professional duty that prevented me from taking the call. I felt an uncontrollable desire to maintain my sense of decorum and to avoid unpleasantness at all costs.
What would I even say. Excuse me, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, my grandfather is in hospital, dying a brutal death, writhing in pain. In fact, I`m sure this call means he`s dead. My father is like his own father. He doesn`t call to chit chat. Why, when my grandmother died at 3:00 a.m., my father refused to wake me until 6:00 when he knew I take my morning jog. So, if he`s calling in the middle of your parent-teacher conference, then something is very, very wrong. Like my grandfather is dead. Excuse me, please, I think I am going to throw up. Or maybe bawl my eyes out. Perhaps I will scream, or throw something, or do something equally inappropriate and disturbing. I`m really not sure what I might do. Except it just isn`t done. Not at our Elementary School, anyway. Such a shame!
So I carried on, patiently explaining why little Ronnie got a 3 instead of a 4 in Health. Yes, I know you are both college educated. I do not think his grade 5 health score will adversely affect him in the future. You see, this term we are learning about human sexuality and reproduction. I`m afraid some of those outcomes do not provide much opportunity for students to exceed expectations. But I`m sure he`ll be really good at it and I bet you are too. Being college educated and all.
Arching my back impatiently. Waiting for it to be over. Remembering when Nan and I had teased Poppy that if he didn`t take better care of his diabetes, he`d become impotent. “At my age, I`d rather have a nice piece of...salt fish”`, he`d retorted. Laughing hysterically together until tears rolled down our cheeks. Now I am biting down on my cheek to prevent the tears from flowing. Please go away, I think. Do you have any other questions, I say. Ronnie is practically a genius, they explain. He should have enrichment opportunities in health. Those assignment that he didn`t pass in were too easy for him to bother with. He`s bored, they lament. I`m pissed, I lament ,but silently.
I suggest that boy genius might be interested in doing a science fair project on a topic related to health and nutrition. They seem appeased for the moment and are shaking my hand, thanking me for meeting with them. I`m sure you have plenty to do this time of year yourself, Mr. Smith says, nodding at the Christmas tree glowing brightly at the back of the room. ``Nothing more important than this``, I smile back. `Merry Christmas`` As they walk out the door, I relent and press talk.
Poppy had slipped into unconsciousness two days earlier while decorating a Christmas tree, my father at his bedside. He told Dad that it wasn`t like Christmas without his Mauri. He had hoped not to make it to the holidays, but it didn`t look like it would pan out for him. He didn`t like to think of Mauri alone on Christmas. They hadn`t spent one apart in the 67 years they`d been married before cancer had stolen her the previous spring. Dad played Pop`s favourite Christmas carols on his guitar, and reminisced about Christmases past until Poppy fell asleep for the last time, the family Christmas tree star clutched in his frail hands.
I had spent the past two days and nights debating when to make the trip back home to Chapel Arm, Newfoundland. I suspected it would be my last. Maybe that was why I hesitated to book my flight. Maybe I could will him to be o.k. by refusing to take any action suggesting the contrary. Or maybe I was just afraid to miss parent teacher interviews. At any rate, it seemed like I had too much on my plate to deal with a death that day.
Poppy had been suffering from a “touch of the bone cancer”`for quite some time. I remember vividly the day he called me up to deliver the bad news. Poppy usually didn`t call himself. Nanny would telephone, and he would interrupt and make his comments from across the room. “Ask Jan when she`s coming to see us again” or “`tell Jan that Victor is dead again on Young and The Restless”. Then one day, it was his voice on the other end telling me that the doctors said he has a touch of bone cancer. This time it was my grandmother interjecting in the background.
“Ken, you got the same thing as I have. Stop complaining. As soon as I get something, you go and get it, too. It`s like you want attention.”
“`The same thing you have, do I. Last time I checked, you don`t have a prostate. That`s where mine started”, he confided to me.
“Well, my cancer is worse than yours. The doctors are giving me the chemotherapy for mine.”
“`Jesus Mauri! Everything is a competition with you. You even have to die first, for Christ sakes! For your information, they told me not to even bother with the chemotherapy. I`m fucked.” He was triumphant.
“`Stop swearing Ken. Jan doesn`t want to listen to that kind of talk.”
That conversation was a year ago, and we had all settled back into our daily routines, forgetting about the dark shadow of cancer that threatened to cover the sun. Besides, Poppy`s stoic attitude along with the fact that he could chop a cord of wood and beat my six year old at wii bowling before 7 a.m. convinced me that the old man was invincible. He told me one day that he ate so much healthy fish that he couldn`t understand how he could have caught the cancer. He told me that he saw a program on CBC that said that omega 3 fatty acids found in fish could protect you. I told him that was fish like salmon, not the salt and deep fried cod with chips he ate daily. Well, it`s too late to worry about it now, he reasoned sipping on drambuie, his preferred nightcap.
Indestructible, unflappable, invincible. He`d survived 4 years as a mine sweeper during WII. He`d survived almost seventy years of my grandmother. All reasons why my vibrating phone sent shocks through my body as if in the wake of a sudden and inexplicable tragedy rather than the death of a sick, old man. The phone was still pulsing in my pocket like an electronic grim reaper. If I flipped it open, perhaps my ring tone would be amazing grace or some such song that signalled death. What the fuck, I remember thinking, am I supposed to do now.
In the absence of a suitable answer, I carried on with my conference, ignoring the offending phone and the fact that my dad needed me. I would like to pretend that I wanted to avoid the inevitable announcement. It would sound better to say that I was too distraught to even face the news. In reality, it was a bizarre adherence to social nicieties and a sense of professional duty that prevented me from taking the call. I felt an uncontrollable desire to maintain my sense of decorum and to avoid unpleasantness at all costs.
What would I even say. Excuse me, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, my grandfather is in hospital, dying a brutal death, writhing in pain. In fact, I`m sure this call means he`s dead. My father is like his own father. He doesn`t call to chit chat. Why, when my grandmother died at 3:00 a.m., my father refused to wake me until 6:00 when he knew I take my morning jog. So, if he`s calling in the middle of your parent-teacher conference, then something is very, very wrong. Like my grandfather is dead. Excuse me, please, I think I am going to throw up. Or maybe bawl my eyes out. Perhaps I will scream, or throw something, or do something equally inappropriate and disturbing. I`m really not sure what I might do. Except it just isn`t done. Not at our Elementary School, anyway. Such a shame!
So I carried on, patiently explaining why little Ronnie got a 3 instead of a 4 in Health. Yes, I know you are both college educated. I do not think his grade 5 health score will adversely affect him in the future. You see, this term we are learning about human sexuality and reproduction. I`m afraid some of those outcomes do not provide much opportunity for students to exceed expectations. But I`m sure he`ll be really good at it and I bet you are too. Being college educated and all.
Arching my back impatiently. Waiting for it to be over. Remembering when Nan and I had teased Poppy that if he didn`t take better care of his diabetes, he`d become impotent. “At my age, I`d rather have a nice piece of...salt fish”`, he`d retorted. Laughing hysterically together until tears rolled down our cheeks. Now I am biting down on my cheek to prevent the tears from flowing. Please go away, I think. Do you have any other questions, I say. Ronnie is practically a genius, they explain. He should have enrichment opportunities in health. Those assignment that he didn`t pass in were too easy for him to bother with. He`s bored, they lament. I`m pissed, I lament ,but silently.
I suggest that boy genius might be interested in doing a science fair project on a topic related to health and nutrition. They seem appeased for the moment and are shaking my hand, thanking me for meeting with them. I`m sure you have plenty to do this time of year yourself, Mr. Smith says, nodding at the Christmas tree glowing brightly at the back of the room. ``Nothing more important than this``, I smile back. `Merry Christmas`` As they walk out the door, I relent and press talk.
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