Garo's Way

Dad’s way has always been about family. 

From the family that he was raised in, for whom he sacrificed his own higher education and career aspirations in taking over a family business for an unappreciative father, to supporting his younger brother throughout his university years so that he could follow his dreams.     

To our family, and the sacrifice of leaving our extended family behind in Montreal in 1977, so that my brother and I could have a more prosperous future, absent of the economic and politic shift in Quebec during its tumultuous years in the 70’s and 80’s.

To his new community in Mississauga, for whom he worked feverishly to set up Community Watch, after several homes, including ours, were broken into the first Easter we spent in our new home province. 

To his new brother-and-sisterhood, the Parkinsons Community, for whom he toiled to raise funds for research and education, after he was diagnosed in 1997.  And for whom he has agreed to donate his brain after he passes, so that Dr. Lang’s team at Toronto Western, along with the many other doctors who work tirelessly in pursuit of a treatment and solution to this insidious disease, can one day be victorious.

His way has also been about a strong will, truth and desire to live, love and enjoy.  A spirit that shines in every nook and cranny in our familial home and every space that he occupies, indoors and out.  A spirit that shouts out “Here I am, ready or not.  And while you’re at it, just watch me”. 

A spirit I inherited from him, come what may.

That spirit helped many a neighbour when household or outdoor items needed repairs.  Sprinkler systems needed to be designed and installed?  No problem.  How about car repairs?  I’ll be right there.  Need your driveway shovelled?  I’ll take care of it while I’m doing mine.

All done in his spare time on weeknights or weekends, after a long day or week spent at Hawker Siddley.

That same spirit helped the owners of a hotel we stayed in for many a summer holiday in Florida, during our youth.  We might have been at the beach or in the ocean, enjoying the white-sand beaches of Clearwater, while Dad could be found back at the hotel, helping the owner re-wire a hotel room fixture, or fix a pump, or secure a faulty lock.    

Dad was never good with free time.  Free time was lost time. 

Unless it involved Mom.  In Dad’s mind, his time was her time.  Any day, hour or week.  Any chore, occasion or concern.  Done, done and done.  Well, maybe not dusting, cleaning washrooms or trips to locations not bearing beaches.  Those were not part of any bargain.

And then there was his love for the Blue Jays.  During the World Series in 1993, he was found huddled over a portable radio someone had snuck into a wedding reception, drink in hand, ready to salute his favourite team. 

A couple of years ago, when Parkinsons and recovery from a broken hip significantly hindered his mobility, we were able to secure some seats for Dad and Mom at Rogers Centre.  The smile from ear to ear said it all.  As did a peaceful night, absent of nightmares and struggles that mars many a night for most Parkinsonian patients.

That spirit also helped him overcome a spinal infection in 2004, a broken hip in 2007, and since December 25^th, 2010, three seizures, two bouts of pneumonia, and a cracked rib.  Most Parkinsonians wouldn’t have made it through these setbacks.  Dad has.  Much to the surprise and bewilderment of many a doctor, specialist and therapist at Trillium and Toronto Western who were ready to write him off again and again.  A middle finger to all of you, his spirit and will shouted. 

That shout was also evident a couple of weeks ago.  Dad can no longer eat or drink, and relies on a gastric feeding tube to get his nutrition and hydration.  He has great difficulty in speaking, even the fewest of words.  For a man who loved and cherished his food and cold, tall glasses of water, it is heart-wrenching to see.  Dad, on the other hand, never gives up, asking for souvalki , peanuts, mango juice, and his favourite, baklava, to be magically transported through a 3/8” feeding tube.  Bring it to me, I’ll figure out a way, his eyes tell us. 

On this particular occasion, he was alone in the family room, asleep, so we thought.  I was in the basement, Mom organizing some files in her bedroom.  I heard Dad waking up, and moments later, ask for water in a very hoarse and unclear voice, in Armenian, his native tongue.  He repeated it several times, not loud enough for Mom to hear.  Undaunted he switched to English, and called out again, several times.  Once again, Mom did not hear.  “Agua” he finally yelled out, using the Spanish he had learned from all those years of summer holidays in the Dominican Republic.  Agua it was, although all Mom could offer him was water across his lips.

So, while he has valiantly fought this disease for 14 years, his heart and desire leading the way with gusto, his body and brain are now failing him, and the end is near.  He may not be able to read this tribute, this recognition of his many ways.  This appreciation from a daughter who is far too much like him, to have always appreciated the ways of her father.  But, he can recognize his picture next to post.  And he can recognize the walkway dedicated to him, Garo’s Walk, adjunct to Clifton Public School, in recognition of his community work and dedication.  His pride swells, thrilled with the recognition the city bestowed to him.

Family.  Friends.  Community.  His sacrifice, love, perseverance and desire to help any and all that came his way.  That’s how I will always remember, honour and cherish Dad.  Yesterday, today and tomorrow. 

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  A week early, just how you like it.