Today was supposed to be another workday—routine and busy. I had a few things I wanted to finish, but some unfortunate news came in the morning. Not unexpected, but it pushed my already gloomy mood to the bottom and drove my thoughts even deeper into an endless state of wondering.
I’ve been wondering and pondering the meaning of life for a little while now… I don’t know, and I might never know. But last year, as my neighbour was gearing up to go to Mexico for the winter, I got a bad feeling. I don’t know how to describe it, but it felt like he was taking his last trip… like I might never see him again. I don’t know why, I don’t know how—it was just a stupid feeling.
He went to Mexico many times before—no issues—and every spring he would come back and things would carry on. Not this time. He got an infection sometime prior (bad luck), and the troubles started on the way to Mexico. As far as I know, he tried to get help in Mexico, but none of it worked, and he was back in Canada a month later.
Don was my incredibly awesome neighbour for nearly a decade. He’s been in the hospital for the past couple of months, slowly withering away, while I’ve been hoping for a miracle. The first time I visited him in the hospital, I had my hopes up. I hoped he would recover—that we’d spend at least one more summer having drinks on odd evenings, and he’d laugh at my problems, occasionally dispensing wisdom in the form of his seemingly endless life stories, or just telling jokes and making fun of the world.
I don’t exactly recall how we met the first time, but I’m sure he invited me for a drink, and that’s how our relationship began. Since then, we hung out quite a bit. He had an interesting character: on one hand stoic and nonchalant, on the other fiery and determined. It takes courage to call out stupidity right to your face, and he did—every time I cooked up yet another “brilliant” idea, like building a shed out of 1×2 or 2×2 wooden planks. Needless to say, his advice didn’t go unnoticed (I didn’t build that shed). He had a lot of experience, and I was happy to receive some of it.
I really appreciated his take on my issues (and oh boy, I’ve got some), especially when my aunt passed away. He told me to go and pay my respects no matter who said what and why. In retrospect, he was absolutely right.
I grew up without a dad, and my mom did everything she could for me. I never really dwelled on it until fairly recently. On one warm, breezy night, drinking with Don and talking about life, I started to wonder if that’s how it should’ve been. Moms are always protective, but what about dads?
I didn’t really have an answer, but what I could gather is that dads seem to give you that tough pill to swallow: if you’re right, you’re right—and if you screwed up, then you’re wrong, and let’s fix it. I don’t know how true my idea is, but that’s how I perceived Don. He was always helping whenever I needed it: advice, tools, knowledge, even a hand when he could.
He always had a story to tell, advice to spare, and he never pretended to be any more than what he was—French Canadian with a big heart and a soul.
