Paint by Numbers

I suppose it all began with the seizures. He swore he never had one while driving, but we remained skeptical.

I was certain it was epilepsy. In fact, I was hoping it was. The alternative seemed so unreal, so scary. Like it couldn’t possibly happen to our family.

The diagnosis came after six months of tests. MRIs, CT scans, bone scans, blood tests. My parents were finally empty nesters, so it was my mom that dealt with the seemingly endless trips to and from various hospitals in Toronto and the GTA.

Prostate cancer.

Dad could hardly speak as he told me over the phone. I was living in Vietnam at the time, while my eldest brother had just recently moved to Australia.

My brother and his partner decided to return to Canada that Christmas, for what everyone thought would be dad’s last, while my partner and I chose to finalize our obligations overseas before moving to Canada permanently just a few months later in March.

The doctors had estimated anywhere from seven months to two years.

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Never one for traditional exercise, my dad kept fit in his own way. Rather than lifting weights or going for runs around the neighbourhood like the rest of our family, he opted for chopping wood, mowing the lawn, and headlining any furniture relocation.

He kept strong in his own fashion.

Dad was quite slim and fit when we were growing up, his muscles present but not too profound. As we grew, so too did his beer belly, ballooning out as if he were a woman in her third trimester.

Still, throughout my life, he had always been an unfailing, able-bodied man.

Willing to trek around the house each week collecting garbage from the bins in our bedrooms. Able to carry large jerrycans of gas to prepare for our nightly summer boat rides or lift the jet ski onto the trailer when we closed the cottage in the fall.

Dad kept busy behind the scenes, doing the physical stuff, just as mom kept it together in the foreground.

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After his initial diagnosis, and in the 5-month gap between chemotherapy treatments, dad was still able to do certain things.

We did our best to soak up as many memories as we could. Once reluctant to take photos, he began to cooperate more. He wanted to leave a few lasting memories behind for his future grandchildren to hear about.

That summer we managed to squeeze in a game of golf, a few trips on our pontoon through the locks and into town, and plenty of nights drinking beer by the bonfire.

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I remember one day during the end of that time when my grandfather came for a visit. While nearly 28 years older than my dad, they hobbled in synchrony up the steps to the house. It was shocking to see my grandpa with more mobility, with more strength and vigour.

Just like a young child oblivious to the reality of Santa Claus, I didn’t really realize when it was about to be the end.

I still imagined him there on my wedding day, walking me down the aisle, a few rare tears escaping his brown eyes. Giving a short and awkward speech, insisting everyone do a cheers and wash it down with a shot of tequila.

Even when I looked at his yellowed, cracked toenails and his swollen ankles, laying there in the hospital bed we had set up for him in his mancave, I thought there was still something that we could do to help him.

But then, slowly, each day, it began to feel like he was only getting worse.

I think the biggest loss for him came when he was no longer fit to drive.

Then to walk, and finally to do almost anything on his own. Even shit. And we were there, every step of the way.

It was a considerable struggle once his legs gave out, us having to lift his body in and out of the car, onto the couch, and in the evenings onto his bed. Always making sure to leave at least 7 cigarettes nearby for him to smoke before my mom arrived early in the morning to help him with breakfast and pills.

And then, after my partner’s back gave out, I was the one tasked with the heavy lifting. I believe I developed a strength often associated with a mother, able to lift a car if it meant saving her child pinned beneath. I knew I would do everything I could to lift him safely, to make sure I didn’t drop him.

There were many firsts for me during this time, as there were for dad.

For the first time I can recall, my dad chose to eat a plate of vegetables over meat. He even craved them for a time. That and ice cream. That was-- until his appetite went.

Like we were watching the wilting of a flower, once full of life, dad became devoid of colour, form, and drive.

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After all else had failed him, except the use of his hands, dad decided to take up a preoccupation with doing paint by numbers.

He asked to start out with something simple. We chose a small tin boat, a beautiful sunset shown both in the sky and in the reflection off the water.

After a few more landscapes, prevalent with bodies of water and radiant skies, he then turned to trees, and later to portraits of the moon. He even did a series of four mini-moons, each displaying varying hues of luminous colours.

Towards the end, it was animals that took primacy atop his canvas.

A cat looking into a puddle, its reflection revealing the lion within.

A red truck with a golden retriever hanging out of the driver’s seat window. Her pups peeping out from behind the truck bed.

One of his last pieces was specially requested, a feat which my brother was able to deliver as an early Father’s Day gift, knowing he likely wouldn’t make it to see the day of.

Dogs playing poker. A scene so fitting of my dad. Casual, funny, and interesting; despite making some major colour mix-ups and thus creating a few green dogs, we all felt that the painting was perfect.

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In the end, dad passed away faster than we could have ever imagined. His decline was so rapid, so intense that we were all physically and mentally exhausted when the day finally arrived.

Grief in his passing, relief in the ending of his pain, confusion at what was to come. Emotions swirled amongst our family as we did our part to make peace.

Later, when family and friends came to visit, we decided to spread his paint by numbers masterpieces amongst those that loved him most.

Grandma had hers framed, displaying it proudly at the family cottage for everyone to see.

We kept our favourites, exhibiting them amongst the many hockey posters, baseball caps, and beer paraphernalia that adorned his beloved mancave.

When all else had failed him, paint by numbers was there for him. Busying his hands, taking his mind away from the confines of his bed, and shifting him, for the last time, to a different, beautiful place.

A place with sunsets and animals. A place along the water’s edge.