With these pictures, I explore the perspective of witnessing a parent’s unstoppable decline to the end. While there are no pictures of my father in this set, I give voice to growing distress at his final journey as my gaze drifted externally to the hospital itself and immediate surroundings. Northern summers, specifically August, now mean something entirely different.
On 19 July 2014, Dad was taken to Vancouver’s St. Paul’s Hospital after he had a minor fall down the stairs at home. No bones were broken, which was remarkable considering his worsening health in the final stages of cancer. He would never return to the house in which he and Mum had bought and lived since 1976. By the 2nd week, he had been moved to the Palliative Care Unit (PCU) on the 10th floor. The wonderful hospital staff took great care of him and other patients in the unit. Dad charmed the PCU staff by chatting with them in broken English; it was his way of exerting some measure of control. By the 3rd week of his hospital stay, his mind and spirit had departed, and he had become completely unresponsive. Over the next five days, his body remained, breathing steady, though often shallow and laboured. He was calm and at peace, and thanks to the meds, with diminished pain. I was with Dad a part of every day for the following 21 days until his death on 9 August; he had celebrated his 82nd birthday a few weeks earlier.
I looked out the windows to summer skies, to tell him the city he’d known for over 40 years was still out there. I was also in a hot rage because the rest of the world continued on unworried and uncaring, leaving Dad and the suffering and the dying behind. Entropy is all fine a concept until it reaches out and fucks with your reason for being.
There’s a lounge area for family and friends, down the hallway at some distance from patients’ beds. In the lounge are couches, chairs, a piano, books, and a small kitchenette with a fridge, microwave, and a place to make coffee or tea. There’s also a small balcony with additional deck chairs for people to sit outside in the shade; the balcony is where I made pictures (6) above and (12) below. With the lounge at the building’s southwest corner, there’s an outstanding west-facing view to the rest of downtown, the West End, and English Bay.
This corridor in the PCU connects the lounge area with staff offices, examination rooms, and patients’ rooms. By day or night, it’s generally quiet: it’s not an eerie atmosphere, but it’s more like a respectful state of mind.
Next to the PCU on the 10th floor, there’s a section where the windows next to the elevators face west to English Bay. We watch the annual summer fireworks through the glass. There are subdued voices, interrupted by the sounds of mobile phones as people attempt to take pictures. There’s no shouting, no whooping, no clapping. Patients, family and friends, and various on- and off-shift hospital staff all gaze equally and quietly into the Salish Sea.
By this point, Dad had become a shell. His spirit had departed days earlier, and his body was hanging on. His eyes, open and unseeing. His mouth, open and sunken. His skin, smooth yet cool to the touch. He looked like a breathing ghost, but a part of him stuck around. And so, I stroked his cheek with the back of my fingers, and I held onto his arm, knowing fully he could no longer acknowledge me. Did I tell him all the things I wanted to say? No, but I had hoped my presence provided some comfort over this time. What I feared most was not the deterioration or the inevitable, but that he was trapped somewhere and unable to communicate. I whispered into his ear: “it’s okay, Dad. We’re all good. You can go.” I repeated this in both English and Toisan for several days.
From the lounge balcony, I made the picture of his final sunset. While he could no longer “see”, I hoped he could sense the shift between day and night. Hours later at 610am on the 9th of August 2014, Dad breathed his last and slipped quietly into the eternal sea. When I got the phone call, I felt some relief for him, that his ordeal was finally over. That respite was quickly replaced by the empty vacuum that comes with losing a parent. Even now, 3 years on, I still relive key moments of those 3 weeks in the hospital.
This post appears on fotoeins DOT com as http://wp.me/p1BIdT-akW. I made all of the pictures between 31 July and 8 August 2014. All pictures were at St. Paul’s Hospital except number 5 (corner of Bute St. and Davie St.) and number 10 (Law Courts building).
Some may recognize the similarity of my post title with “The X-Files” episode “The Field Where I Died” which is a personal favourite. Those familiar with the episode will also know this video excerpt with this music score.