The Man Who Taught Me To Listen
onJanuary 13th, 2025
This past weekend, after years of resilience and quiet strength, my father passed away. Though I was half a world away when it happened, my thoughts were with him as I shared a memory of his first car, a yellow 1977 Honda Civic, with a neighbour. It was one of countless stories that captured his spirit—a blend of practicality, adventure, and humour that defined so much of who he was. My sister, who was by his side in his final moments, sent me a message almost immediately, a poignant reminder of how connected we all were to him, no matter the distance.
Yet it's this connectedness with my sister that stands in start contrast to how often my father and I had conversations. For so much of my life, he has been a quiet man. His creative writing would often span dozens or hundreds of pages but his spoken sentences were short, containing just enough words to convey an idea. Phone calls would often consist of long periods of one-sided discussion, where he would take in what others were saying while responding every so often with an "Oh yeah?" or "Uh huh". It wasn't that he was disinterested, but that he wasn't particularly conversational. So when he did speak at length, people would often listen. These were rare times to get a glimpse into the inner thoughts of the man.
My sisters are absolutely distraught. We have known for years that our father would be passing away at a young age, but none of us would have suspected he would be gone at 67. He spent much of his final years gasping for each breath. His lungs contained so much internal scarring that they were no longer able to properly extract oxygen from the atmosphere to feed his blood. The last conversation that he and I had over the phone took place half a year ago. He could say short sentences, pausing to catch his breath each time. On occasion he would get into a coughing fit for minutes at a time after talking about one of his passions, be it the Toronto Maple Leafs or his '57 Chevy Bel Air. Since then we have stuck primarily to very long text messages, but even these were few and far between. Messages that I would write would be unread for weeks, and then a response might be several days later.
There were many things that my father was very adept at, but communication was never one of them.
Since his death on Saturday, I've found myself thinking a lot about the conversations we've had over the years, the sacrifices he made for his family, and the things he often left unsaid for decades. But it's the intangible gifts that stand out the most. Many of my mannerisms and even my sense of humour clearly come from him. My sisters remind me of this every time we're on the phone. They, too, incorporate parts of him that shine through when we're joking around as siblings do. So, while our father may be physically gone, he will continue to live on in each of us for decades to come.
While the sadness of losing my father fills the air, there’s a quiet comfort in knowing that his pain has finally come to an end. For years, he endured a struggle that would have broken many, each breath harder than the last. Now, he no longer has to fight for air, no longer feels the weight of his illness. Though I will always miss him, I am grateful that he is at peace. And as I hold onto the memories, the lessons, and the laughter he shared, I find solace in knowing that his legacy lives on in the lives he touched, including mine.