He died, though he didn’t mean to

It’s coming up for five years since my father died. Jack’s death was a milestone in my life as it was the last in his. It’s true that we all have to go at some time yet the manner of his passing was unexpected and well before what he would have considered his time.

Dad was an accountant by trade, and a senior accountant at that. He’d spent most of his working life career-building, working his way up through a handful of companies to become the chief financial officer of a multinational that built among other things power stations. A hard worker, he prided himself on what he’d achieved while remaining realistic of his own capabilities and expectations. In the end whatever measure you use, you’d have to say that he was successful in his career, a person others deemed to have been a winner in a corporate sense.

At the point where he’d achieved all he could in corporate life, and as retirement age approached, dad chose not to slip into a life of ease, but rather to launch out in business on his own. Using a significant slice of his retirement fund, he bought a run-down rental car franchise and set about re-inventing himself. Dad was not the sort of guy who was ever going to age gracefully. Fishing, gardening or other tested retiree pursuits held no interest for father. It was never in doubt that after his real job finished, he’d find something commercial to do, ensuring a long and productive 3rd age of life. I’d always though he might start a restaurant to indulge his passion in cooking and consuming good food and wine when he retired, yet car rentals seemed a good opportunity and one that would utilise his sharp business mind.

He’d never had a sick day in his life as far as I can remember. Oxen like, he’d keep up a schedule that would daunt the hardiest of workers. When his busy official workday ended, you’d find him in the kitchen tackling some fresh salmon, or a French dish, often working late on his culinary explorations. And renovate…. his weekends were filled with do-it-yourself projects he’d hoped would ultimately add some value to the property. My father was fit and busy, he could never have been accused of being lazy.

So it came as a shock to hear of his illness. The first news came when his wife Janet called me in England to say he was having some tests. Apparently back in Sydney where he lived, he’d had some difficulty breathing. They’d initially guessed he might have developed some form of asthma. Nothing to be alarmed of at this early stage Janet said, assuring me she’d get back to me when they knew more. It was my brother who rang me a week or so later with the news that dad had been diagnosed with mesothelioma, a rare form of lung cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. Originally the diagnosis made no sense. Most who were affected by this disease had worked in industries that involved building or mining, those who’d worked closely with the killer fiber. Dad had sat cocooned in well-appointed offices in what you might think of as safe environs. How could it be that he’d been afflicted by this terminal, incurable disease?

We speculated about the back-yard garage he’d demolished while we were kids. In the 60′s and 70′s there were no public concerns about the asbestos based cement sheeting surrounding us at home, school and workplaces. Dad had demolished that garage over a weekend selling the pieces to some other unwitting misfortunate. Or maybe it was the sheeting he and I had fitted to the ceiling in our old house around 1980. By most accounts the exposure from these sorts of activities would not have necessarily been enough to trigger his illness, though we are warned that there is no safe level of exposure to asbestos and the products made from it are now banned. After some investigation it turns out that a site he worked at in Ultimo during the 70′s was one of the most heavily polluted asbestos sites in Australia. The Dairy Farmers production plant probably killed him, even though he spent very little time on the factory floor.

It took about 18 months from the first diagnosis until he passed away. I visited him in Sydney for 3 weeks in an awkward attempt to find a closeness we seldom had in early years. I’m glad I took the time to be with him even though he remained distracted, trying to secure his business interests before his choked lungs finally gave way. We did have a moment however where things were said… it was worth the 20,000 mile round trip for those few short minutes.

In the end he didn’t mean to die. He’d banked on another 10 years at least, 70 being far to young according to the average he said. I called him from Amsterdam the day before he died. He’d sounded cheerier, clearer than I’d heard him for some time. I told him what I’d been doing and about my children, his grandchildren. I mentioned each of them by name and boasted of their schooling achievements. I told him they’d be alright, that they’d do well in life to which he replied: I won’t live to see that. We both knew he was right and said our unknowing final farewells. He died at home later that afternoon with many things still unresolved, fighting for every breath to the last.

I’m not sure if we can ever really die well… there’s often too much life in the way to allow that. But after watching dad struggle with his own personal battle I made a mental note to at least attempt it when my time comes. Hopefully that’s a long way off yet, but I want to be prepared. Maybe that was his parting gift to me, an opportunity to see how hard it is to let go and flow with the moment, whatever that moment brings.