My first reaction as I sit here in stunned silence is WTF?

Dear Air Canada, Why even bother to pretend to have a compassionate rate?

I read the webpage on Compassionate Rates from Air Canada and got confused. It seemed to be setting up stipulations that made no sense, unless I cared more about receiving a discount, than getting to my Dad before he died.

I thought, surely I’m reading this wrong, so I called.

I spoke to a lovely fellow on the phone, who seemed to cringe as he told me I’d disqualified myself from their compassionate discount because A) I didn’t call them first and B) I booked a one way ticket because I didn’t know if Dad would die in a day, a week, a month or recover completely.

I guess I didn’t miss out on much. According to their website: “In many instances, a lower-priced fare may be found by shopping online at aircanada.com. Bereavement fares are intended to provide maximum flexibility for passengers who must travel during a time of family emergency but are not necessarily the lowest fares available.”

So I ask – why bother?

I am so much more frustrated with Air Canada now for pretending to have a Compassionate Rate than I was when I didn’t think they had one.

Ironically, WestJet offers the same sort of non-rate, with slightly fewer restrictions. The difference is that it’s easy to find their Bereavement Rate information on their website, it’s worded in a way that makes sense to someone who is panicking about getting there in time and gives a hint as to why a bereavement fare is valuable.

Because of the way WestJet explained everything up front and in full sentences, I’m not nearly as irate at them.

I had to do a search to find the compassionate rate on the Air Canada website. After reading their stipulations set out in corporate-speak, I can’t figure out any value for me to even attempt to get the rate. In fact it sounds like more of a time consuming inconvenience for passengers, like me, who are concerned about their family and getting there in ‘time’.

Unfortunately, I HAVE to fly Air Canada to get home at Christmas. WestJet doesn’t fly to Saint John during the winter. The closest airport they do fly into is Moncton. A hour away from my parent’s… err my Mom’s House, and driving down from Moncton isn’t always an option.

If that’s their MO for gettnig business no wonder they’re in trouble!

My Eulogy for my Father:

The most amazing man in my world died this week.

We’re all in shock.

The most frequent phrase I’ve heard is, “What do you mean Dick is dead? I just saw him…?”

In my parent’s house, I find myself looking out toward the garage wondering when Dad will finish up and come inside.

Then I remember he won’t.

We’ve heard some wonderful stories about Dad over the past few days. It’s been comforting, learning how he’s touched other people and made them laugh. We’re looking forward to hearing more.

Dad was a straight shooter. He wasn’t much for pretence and he told it like it was. He didn’t demand respect, he earned it.

I’ve moved across the country, done a lot of traveling, met a lot of people, all of them make me realize how lucky I am and have taught me to value Dad for his intelligence, integrity, knowledge, kindness and his sense of humour.

It’s been his sense of humour that has carried us through this past week. Dad would have been furious if we wore sad expressions on our faces and moped around.

At one point on Friday in the ICU waiting room Mom suddenly smiled.

She’d closed her eyes and imagined what Dad would do if he was there. In her mind’s eye she could see him standing impatiently at the door saying, “Come on old girl, let’s go home.” And then he’d say slyly to a passing nurse, “Gotta call her that to keep her feeling young.”

I can see some of you smiling. You’ve heard him say that, haven’t you.

As Mom told us about her musings you could feel a shift in the room. Expressions softened and shoulders relaxed. That was the effect Dad had on people.

If Dad had been able to orchestrate his own death, this is the way he would have done it. Really, part of me wonders if he didn’t have a say in how this week has played out.

It was fast. Any of you who knew Dad also knew that being confined to bed would have killed him faster than any disease.

On Wednesday, the night he was taken to hospital, he and Mom went for a lovely walk along Saint’s Rest Beach and had a relaxing evening.

Scott who had moved home three months ago, was just up the street and saw the fire trucks go by. He was able to reach Donnie who ‘coincidentally’, was coming home from Grand Manan and was just west of Mom and Dad’s exit. They were at the house within minutes.

Mom wasn’t left to face this alone.

I was able to catch a flight from Vancouver the next morning. He made sure he was still there – so that I had a chance to yell at him for scaring us all, a chance to accept what was happening and a chance to say goodbye.

The doctors and nursing staff were wonderful. They answered all of our questions and trust me, there were a lot, many of them we asked over and over again. They never lost patience.

Even though none of us liked what was happening, Dad gave us all the chance to accept the reality and time to say our goodbyes.

When he sensed that we were gathered and ready for the final vigil, he simply stopped, sparing us all the agony of waiting.

Daddy took care of us, right to his last heartbeat.

On behalf of my Mom, my brothers Donnie and Scott, the rest of my family and myself, I want to say thank you to all of you. Thank you for your love and support, thank you for your prayers Thank you for being here with us as we celebrate the life of my father and honour the man that he was.

And I’ll add a caution and a request.

Don’t take life for granted. It doesn’t matter how healthy you think you are, circumstances can change in a heartbeat.

Tell the people around you that you appreciate them. Tell your family you love them.

As my family and I learned this week, you never know when that ability will be taken away from you.

Day 5

I’m not sure what caught my attention about her as she walked onto the skytrain. Maybe it was the exhausted way she dragged her oversized duffel-bag behind her, even though it was only six-thirty in the morning. She bent over awkwardly sideways trying to balance the knapsack she was carrying over one shoulder. It looked, like despite her effort, it was going to slip down over her arm anyway.

Luckily, the train was still half-empty so she was able to have one of the single seats which gave her room to drag her big, wheeled duffel close beside her out of the way of embarking passengers. She placed her knapsack on her lap, turned to the window and went still.

Not just still – unnaturally still.

If I hadn’t seen her come in I would have assumed she was a statue. Well, except for her thumb. Her thumbnail rubbed back and forth over the centre of her bottom lip. The movement was so small I almost missed it.

She fascinated me. I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

She had her cell phone gripped in her hand, pressed against her duffel-bag. I could hear it buzz against her luggage every few minutes. She’d check her messages and her lips would tilt up ever so slightly then her eyes would close and she’d take a deep breath. Her shoulders shook, just a bit until she seemed to get herself back in check. When her eyes opened again, there was an extra sheen to reflect the rising sun.

Suddenly, I understood.

I wanted to catch her eye and offer her comfort but the few times she looked around, her glance skipped over people and focused on silly things. Like to where the upright pole attached to the ceiling or the empty place where an ad should have been in the overhead marketing slots.

Her sadness was almost tangible, at least to anyone paying attention. The guy, sitting across from her, was oblivious.

She looked back out the window as we entered the tunnel. For a brief split-second, our eyes met in the reflection.

In that moment of clarity, I realized that she, was me.

*****

This was the start of my journey home.

My brother, Scott, called me Wednesday night to tell me Dad had an aortic aneurysm. He went into cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital. They took him immediately into surgery and he was given a 10% chance of surviving the surgery.

I was on the earliest flight I could get. Hence the 6:30 am skytrain ride.

The flight across the country was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Even harder than giving the eulogy at his funeral.

Being out of touch for the 5 hours between the gate at Calgary to the gate in Halifax left me in a panic. Was Daddy going to die? Would I make it in time to say goodbye? and then chastising myself for letting doubt seep into my thoughts. Dad was strong, healthy and stubborn. He’d be fine.

I broke down in the middle of the airport in Halifax. I had a three hour layover and there wasn’t an earlier flight I could catch. I could probably drive just as fast, but by then I’d been up for so long I could hardly stand, let alone attempt to drive.

Mom didn’t need to have two of us in the hospital.

The plane from Halifax to Saint John was cute. A little, ancient looking 16 seater. It gave me the comic relief I desperately needed.

When I got to Saint John less than an hour later I was calmer. I was home, Dad was still alive and Mom was at our house trying to get some sleep. She’d been up for over 40 hours by then too.

Day 1 complete

A good time was had by all.

I took a chance and mixed writers with non- writers. The experiment worked out well.

Folks started gathering at the allotted time and this time I was smart and moved the BBQ to the front of my house where the deck protected the grill-flip-artists from the wet much better than the eaves at the back of my house with the dripping gutters did last time.

My house full of people lingered til late in the evening, cozied against the wet outside and fortified with wine, coffee, lemon meringue and toblerone cheesecake (and yes it was as good as it sounds)

Now today, it’s back to the grind.

Sunday Brunch Writing Prompts at Toasted Cheese, hoisting my editor flag and reading a revised manuscript sent to PaperBox Books, #amediting myself and polishing my next novel to be published and somewhere in the middle Skyping my parents to say, “Hi” and recap this week’s events.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight
Red in the morning, sailors take warning

That old saying has never steered me wrong to predict the following day’s weather… outside of wildfire season that is. This week, the sky is hazy and the sun is red from the moment it begins to sink in the sky.

Normally, the ash in the air doesn’t bother me, but this afternoon I couldn’t stop coughing. If this is what it feels like to those who have seasonal allergies… well I have a whole new respect for what you go through.

Me no likey!

Of course, I’ve planned a BBQ for Saturday. The weather has been spectacular and it looked like it was going to continue for another week or so… that is until I sent out the invitations. Then the forecast immediately changed to rain.

Now I’m feeling guilty for resenting the rain when we need it so badly.

So Mr. Weatherman, let’s make a deal. Pour you little heart out on Friday and Sunday and give me a sunny Saturday. Does that work for you?