Reflections on mortality

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Dylan Thomas wrote those lines in an address - more properly a villanelle - to his dying father, in 1951. I had reason to recall that poem when I visited my father in hospital last month.
Dad is 91, edging towards 92. He's still sharp as a tack, witty, funny and strong, in mind and spirit at least. His memory is terrific. It's his body that, after all these years, is failing.
Dad has cancer. Or rather, he has cancers - more than one. Several years back, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. That's something all males can look forward to, should we live long enough. Dad elected to stay on a regimen of drugs, and eschew surgery, radiation and chemotherapy.
But last month we learned he also had esophageal cancer, which has also spread to the liver, and possibly other places like his stomach or spleen. And his prostate cancer has spread to his bones, as well.

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My father is dying.
Our first inkling he was ill came, ironically enough, on Father's Day. We drove to Toronto to visit him, and picked up lunch at Tim Horton's for Mom and Dad, then went to the nursing home where Mom now resides. Everyone was enjoying the meal, except Dad, who only age a mouthful or two, then complained about gas and being unable to eat.
That's when we learned he was unable to eat solid foods, and was in pain. He had been having problems for several weeks at that point.
He had seen his doctor and had both a X-ray and ultrasound, neither of which showed anything. Two weeks later, by which time he had lost 20 pounds, he was admitted to hospital, weak and frail.
But by then, it was too late by far.

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The news exposed what we all expected, or feared from the symptoms: cancer, spreading quickly, discovered too late for intervention.
My grandfather (mother's father) died in a similar fashion: at 94 he got stomach cancer. My father's father died in his 80s of prostate cancer, or more correctly the side effects of it.
It's not death that concerns me. We all die; it's part of that great cycle called life. Science and medicine have prolonged life past the traditional limit of "three score and seven." No one can complain about not having had a full life when they reach 91.
Eventually the body fails despite the science, falls prey to old enemies like viruses or bacteria, or succumbs to the mutation of genetic information that creates cancer. There is no escape: we all die.

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Dad is aware of this. He's back at home now, awaiting the inevitable. We're concerned about his comfort, to avoid suffering, but he's aware of the end as it inches forward.
And he faces it with a remarkable calm. My father isn't religious, has no particular faith to fall back upon. In fact, all of my life I've assumed he was an atheist. And I've respected that. He is unencumbered by superstition and false hope. He knows that, when he dies, the light goes out. He doesn't expect to fall into some imaginary hell or rise to some wished-for heaven. He has no faith in fairy tales; neither angels nor demons afflict his vision of the end; his eyes are open and his spirit is calm.

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But it doesn't make it easier for all of us, despite his gentle, understanding and quiet resignation. We take strength from his calm, stoic example, but it doesn't make it any less emotional for us.
When he was in hospital, he had some minor surgical procedures - the insertion of a stent to keep the esophagus open, then a prostate "scraping" to keep the urethra open - they helped prolong his life. He was even able to go home to enjoy his last days in the comfort of a familiar setting.
But nothing will change the end. It may be delayed, the time on this mortal coil prolonged. In the end, time will win.
It always wins.

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Dad may last weeks or even months, depending on how quickly the cancers spread, although considering his current state, it may be mere days. Either the cancer in the stomach or the esophagus is spreading fast, making eating increasingly difficult.
What I want for him, what we all want, is his comfort, as painless as possible the remaining time. As comfortable and as easy as it can be, with his family nearby to see to his needs.
My own spiritual perspective leans heavily on Buddhism, but Buddhism without the trivialities of the gods, demons and afterlife that accumulated later. I cannot abide those phantoms and superstitions that occlude the clear teachings of the Buddha. I don't even hold with reincarnation. Buddhism without heavens, hells, afterlife, gods, spirits, ghosts, oracles, magic or demons is pretty close to atheism; a moral philosophy, a righteous way of life, but not a religion.
I don't have any concerns about Dad's spiritual future: death ends the journey for all of us. There is no "I" that carries on afterwards. The time we spend on the planet is all we have and there is no opportunity to make amends, or gain salvation, after you die. You achieve your goals and make your mark here and now, or never.
I suppose I lost any sense of religion early. When I was 11, my mother had a stoke and almost died. She spent years in hospital, but never recovered the use of her left arm and leg. Any fledgling faith I might have had was burned away in that period. I rejected Christianity - her faith and more strongly held by her parents - because it offered no answers, let alone a cure. I retreated into hard practicalities, the empiricism of science - reading Darwin, Fabre, Roy Chapman Andrews at age 12. Belief in the supernatural in any form, died within me.

I accept Dad's impending death comfortably, but tinged with sadness and a certain regret for things unresolved or left unsaid.
Sons always have more to say to their fathers, unfinished conversations, admissions of emotions that never quite get spoken. I don't know if it's a cultural or biological thing, but we don't have the closeness that mothers and daughters seem to share.
And, having lived 55 years with or near him, even if not always on the best terms, it will be difficult to see him leave. Even if he doesn't know it, Dad's been a role model for me, a guiding light I will miss.
He's one of the last moral men I know, the "Last of the Just." He's been strong, rock solid, honest and upright, shouldering the weight of my mother's stoke and her care without a murmur of complaint for more than 40 years. Just like he accepts his current pain and discomfort with hardly a word. I can only wish I had that strength.
One of the most important things he passed on to me was my love of reading. That has only grown in me over the years, and with it I suppose got a little of his intelligence. mixed with a bit of his skepticism. My reading adult books from an early age made me very keen on science and history, and coloured my view of the world. Every time I pick up a book to read today, I owe my enjoyment to my father.
In his shadow I still feel a young, immature man. It's difficult to live up to his example. I suppose I will have to pluck up the courage to tell him this, while I still can.