The Last Supper

Creeping emphysema from a lifetime of smoking took hold of my robust, athletic father and turned him into a frail and fragile old man whose every exertion left him gasping for breath. Hospitalized after a fall, the slow disintegration of his body gathered speed and one afternoon a few months later my eldest brother called to say that things didn’t look very good at all.

Within a few hours I was on a plane. I felt guilty for not having gone to see Dad sooner, sick with anxiety that I might be too late. It was awful to think that he might leave before the rest of us got there, robbing us of any chance to say goodbye.

He was hanging on, but unconscious and unresponsive to touch or voice. I dozed in a chair by his bed, waking frequently to check on him. When sleep was impossible, I tried to bring back all the memories I had of him, but the same few kept replaying in my head. Walking me to school, laughing at my attempts to match his long strides. Showing my brothers how to fight fairly, with gloves instead of fists. Teaching me to waltz, my child’s feet tenuously balanced on his long and bony ones. Bringing home the first new car he had ever had—a two-seater MG. Sailing the dinghy one last time before winter came, through paper-thin ice. Coping well, despite all our fears, with a sudden loss of vision at the relatively young age of sixty five.

I wondered how and when he would die. He could linger for days, or even weeks. It didn’t seem right that his life, which had been by turns adventurous and industrious, familial and solitary, would finish in such a sterile, unworthy place. I imagined carrying him away to some beautiful spot; a high, grassy meadow overlooking the sea where, in the warmth and brilliance of spring, he could leave us behind in a setting infinitely more appropriate.

By daylight, nothing had changed; he barely breathed and his skin, almost luminous, was tinged with blue. The only one still missing—my middle brother—arrived in early afternoon. There was still no reaction from Dad.

Now we were complete. We sat beside his bed, talking in low tones, waiting, holding Dad’s hands and watching for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Then, astonishingly, he spoke. “Is that you, Garry?”, he asked of my middle brother, faint surprise in his voice.

By evening, he was completely alert. The next day he was strong enough to eat small amounts. He slept a lot, but between naps he talked with us, made weak jokes and took quiet, obvious pleasure in the presence of his family. We were amazed, and wary of what might happen next. Every time he dozed off I half-expected that he would leave us as abruptly as he had come back, but two more days went by and still he was there.

Finally, reluctantly, Garry and I made our plans to fly home. No one said anything out loud, but it didn’t feel right to leave without some kind of acknowledgment that these might be the last hours we would ever spend with our father.

What comes back to me most vividly about that last day is Dad’s reaction when we announced that we had cancelled his bland hospital meal in favour of a tasty supper of his favourite foods. Over years of living alone he had become a pretty decent cook and despite - and because - of the loss of his sight, cooking became one of his most important daily activities. Mealtimes were events to be anticipated and appreciated, and he planned them accordingly. Almost every afternoon at four o’clock he sat down at the little table in his kitchen with a glass of wine and two pieces of Stilton cheese—crackers on the side—and the highlight of his week was go out for dinner to his favourite restaurant. But while we were pretty sure he'd like the idea, we hadn't counted on the effect it would have.

‘Bring it on!!’, he roared, as if he'd discovered salvation at an old-time revival meeting. He pulled himself up straighter and smoothed his pyjama top - to be more presentable, he said. My brother poured a generous amount of red wine and held it steady for Dad to drink.

“That’s the ticket!” he chortled. It didn't matter that the wine was served in a plastic cup. Next came a cracker topped with Stilton, followed by another, and another. The tremors that had bedeviled him for years were worse than they had ever been; we took turns feeding him. My brother warned him not to eat too much or he’d have no room for the next course, which just made Dad laugh. Oh, we didn't need to worry about that, he said. His pleasure was so intense that it almost hurt to watch him. I was stricken by the fact that something this simple could bring him such joy. Why hadn’t we thought of it before?

The Greek salad was a big hit, eaten with gusto and washed down with more wine. This was the guy who, just days before, had been barely able to get a few tablespoons of applesauce down the hatch. With relish, he moved on to the spicy designer pasta, but soon he began to tire. The effort and excitement had taken their toll and then suddenly, he was asleep. We waited, wondering if we should just pack up what was left. My brother’s eyes rarely left Dad’s face, and on his own were shadows of tenderness and grief.

After a brief nap, Dad roused himself to continue but the pace slowed, and after a few more bites he pronounced himself ‘full fit to bursting!’. In the lengthening evening, we sat together as he drifted in and out of wakefulness. When finally it was late and time to go, we embraced him and wished him goodnight and goodbye.

A week or so later I called him on the phone. He told me there were still some leftovers and that at around four o’clock that afternoon the nursing aide had brought him some Stilton and red wine. “I had a wine and cheese party for one and really enjoyed it!” It was the last time I heard his voice.

My little dream of taking Dad to a meadow overlooking the sea was, in fact, a wish for a meaningful way to mark the end of his life and a gesture that would let him know how much he meant to me. But in its spontaneity and simple joy, the meal we shared with him - our Last Supper - did that perfectly.