Written for a friend’s ‘zine with the theme of how COVID-19 has affected our lives, November 2020.

“I’m ready to go, you know,” Charles stated. “Once the books are gone, I can go.” His nautical history collection was the envy of marine museum archivists, so that job had to be done right.

He called his landlord: “I won’t need the apartment after September, because I’ll be dead by then.” He’d had a heart valve replaced in January, hoping that the small tumours in his abdomen would remain benign for a few more years.

Charles had led a remarkable life as a mariner, teacher, author and even spy, as we learned belatedly. Not to mention having been married to my late mother for over 30 years – a second marriage for both. He was qualified to command any ship in any waters in the world. He had lived in a world of mostly men, and at home his love could sometimes look like the fulfillment of duty towards those he considered to be on his ship. He had a practical mind, and was not given to sentimentality.

He met Trish at our Thanksgiving potluck in 2018, when he was 89. At the end of an evening of close conversations she handed him a napkin with her phone number written on it. He joked, “I’ve waited all my life for this to happen!” Despite their different backgrounds – she had been a fiercely self-reliant, single mom back-to-the-lander – and a 24-year age difference, they found common ground. The relationship remained platonic, but they dined and danced and went on local excursions. Charles opened Trish’s eyes to the fact that men can truly be honourable gentlemen, while also being masculine and self-confident. She hadn’t known anyone like him.

COVID-19 hit and we all retreated into our homes to watch each other on Facebook. We saw photos of Charles helping to break new sod with his mask on, so Trish could plant potatoes. Later there were pictures of COVID haircuts in masks. As pubs re-opened, there were photos of birthday dinners and cakes with candles and smiles.

Then August came, and Charles’ timebomb started ticking. His belly swelled with fluid expelled by growing pancreatic tumours. Draining the fluid offered temporary relief, but had to be done in hospital where visits were limited to two people for an hour a day. It wasn’t the place to die if he could help it. His children started coming and going, then staying.

One Sunday, we gathered at his apartment: his five children, some grandchildren, my family and Trish. A palliative care doctor had visited that day, and Charles had made his wishes known. They had discussed what his death would probably look like: the fluid would build up until his digestive tract could no longer keep its contents moving south. There would be pain meds if he needed them, and sedatives to keep the body from reacting to its imminent demise. One daughter was tasked with administering the medications through subcutaneous butterflies which would be installed by VON nurses, and the doctor would be available by text throughout. There was a feeling in the air of clearing the decks and mustering for battle.

Charles emerged from the bathroom in a wheelchair, escorted by two of his children who had been admitted past the barrier of dignity that he was quickly dropping. He was weak, but in good spirits. He enjoyed some crackers and grapes while we took turns caring for him, and he spoke of love. How he loved each one of us. How he’d had a wonderful life, doing what he loved. And looking at Trish, declaring to all what they had only recently admitted to each other: “I love this woman. If circumstances were different….”

And so, Charles set about the business of dying. He delegated the gifting of his marine library and paintings to his mariner friends as he became weaker by the day. By mid-week, he declared that he would die on Saturday. “How could he know?” we wondered. We took turns sitting with him, and witnessed the mysteries. He saw people we couldn’t see and called the names of the departed. He reached out his arms and beckoned them to come. He allowed us to assist his intimate functions. He told stories of his life at sea. He resigned himself to not getting his own obituary written in time, but planned his memorial service.

Like a sailor planning his arrival in port, he knew the winds and currents, and had plotted his course. On Saturday, everyone who could be there was there. That was his intention, and the quiet wish of several. And so he took his last breath surrounded by love as we handed him over to the team on the other side, which of course included my mother, and my sister who died last year, whose birthday it was.

After, as we sat around the living room, an enormous dragonfly flew in an open door and exuberantly bounced around the apartment over our heads. The association of dragonflies and death occurred to some of us, while others had the initial urge to swat it but refrained. We cheered as it finally bumbled out into the sunshine.

COVID rules nixed Charles’ vision of a big memorial service. Instead, there was an invitation-only service at the gravesite which we livestreamed. Protocol required that all wear masks, even though we were outside. Some brought lawnchairs but most stood. No group singing was allowed, but friend Dave Carroll performed a lovely version of Charles’s favourite hymn. The town mayor spoke, and there were bagpipes.

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Charles’ website: LonghillPublishing.ca