Malcolm’s daughter

My dad believed in bring your daughter to work day before it was a movement. He believed in it so much, that he would bring me to his CBC Montreal, and later CTV Montreal, workplace more than once a year.  I would be his shadow and sit in the control room, “help” him at his desk, and generally just be in the background absorbing everything. Regardless of my age he would explain everything to me, quietly and calmly.

Always- and I mean – always when I met one of his colleagues for the first time, their first words were – “oh, you must be Malcolm’s daughter”  Paternal pride had long before announced my presence, as Dad regaled (tortured?) his colleagues with the latest achievements of his little girl.  Oftentimes, it was run of the mill details of my report card marks, or how I was doing in Girl Guides, the common notes of every child’s existence.  But his particular pride brought my everyday milestones up to the level of climbing Mount Everest or cracking the DNA code, to almost to mythic levels -at least in my Dad’s eyes.

His pride knew no bounds and only his dying breath would vanquish it, and I am sure, not even then.

Dad’s illness took only three weeks to claim him, or rather we only knew about his cancer for three weeks before he left.  Too short a time for long conversations, but long enough for a final pep-talk the night before his last day. 

There is always a busy-ness to the final weeks of someone’s life – when you are gifted and yet cursed with the knowledge that the end is near.  Making arrangements, appointments, final visits, and ministering all slotted in during the shrinking moments of consciousness as that person starts to slip away.

That final night, my Mom took a break from being by my Dad’s side and I sat down next to him, and he took the opportunity to impart his final words of wisdom to me – his final act of being a Dad, a role he was gloriously imperfect at.  At the core of what followed was the love and pride I knew my whole life, although I rarely appreciated as much as I should have.  A final lesson, a final pat on the head, a final wish for the rest of my journey I was to take without his constant guidance and reassurance. 

Funnily enough, I learned more about my Dad in that final private exchange than I had in the forty years previously.  His Dad-ness distilled to its very core, full of light even as it was fading.

As quickly as the conversation started, did the words fade away as Mom came back in the room and the busy-ness of Dad’s transition from one world to the next continued.

I miss going to work with Dad, I miss him showing me things and, yes, showing me off.  Milestones aren’t the same without him, without being able to share in that joy or heartache. I miss being known as “Malcolm’s daughter” though I will in my heart always be so.  For as much as my Dad was proud of me, I was – and am – so incredibly proud of him. 

Sadly, I only truly realized how much until it was too late.