“You have seven unheard voice-messages.”

It’s 9:30 and I’m arriving home from a Robbie Burns party in the Republic of Rathnelly, a tight-knit neighbourhood down the hill from my condo that once considered separating from the City of Toronto. The haggis was peppery and the conversation with the Republicans, engaging. They are largely rebellious only in spirit now. There were no talks of storming any barricades. But there was lots of chatter about the US election to come later this year and excitement that Hilary Clinton has said she’ll run. And lots of drinking and merriment. It was a crowd dotted with lawyers approaching middle age like the Republic itself (and my hosts) and I shared my observations of life as a first year lawyer. Many shook their heads - why would anyone do it, as they felt trapped in lifestyles that required their high incomes to sustain. 

Poppy, my cat, purrs and rubs herself around my legs as I press 1 to hear the first of the messages I didn’t expect. I’d called mom earlier to wish her a happy 79th birthday. At this time of night, my friends are either out or snuggled in with a book or TV. Who’s calling? And why seven messages?

“It’s Cathy. Dad’s had a heart attack. They’re in an ambulance and I’m just leaving to meet them at the hospital. I don’t know anything else. I’ll call when I know more” Oh god. I press 1 again. 

“I’m at the hospital with mom. Don’t know what’s going on. They’re working on him.” Cathy’s crying. I’m crying. Press 1 again.

“Celia, it’s Phil. You have to call. It’s Dad.” My brother’s up north in Sudbury and we don’t talk much. Cathy must have assigned him the job. 

I keep tabbing through the messages. All Phil now. Finally the 7th.

“Cel. Call.”

I search for Phil’s number and get through the 10 digits with shaking fingers.  “It’s Celia. I’m sorry I’ve been at a party.” 

“Oh Cel, Dad died about an hour ago.” 

My world is changed. 

***

That was 15 years ago this week. It transformed January 26 from a happy day, a month after Christmas when we’d celebrate my mother’s birthday and at the same time, feel grateful January, the first full month of winter, was over and spring was surely on its way. Dad’s sudden death on mom’s birthday always felt a little cruel not of him but of his heart that chose to give up that very day.  

My father a farmer-turned-luthier was literally working until he dropped - he had a client in the cellar looking at cellos and he was discussing bass making on the phone with another instrument maker, Chet Bishop, from Portland, Oregon. Out of the blue, I sent Chet an email this week, a man I’ve never spoken to but who has legendary status in our family. Unsurprisingly, the sound of my father dying instantly at the other end of the phone had a profound impact on him too. He wrote: “It was a terrible grief to me, as I had dearly hoped to show him (my only mentor in bass-building) my finished bass. I never was privileged to meet him, but he was a major encouragement to me and he continues to be so." 

Dad wasn’t my mentor but I was only 40 when he died and I know I would have continued to learn from him too. He exemplified the two attributes I strive for - being interested and interesting. Sudden death is what we all dream of. But it was a helluva a shock to his wife of 55 years and his five kids.  It just leaves so much, well, incomplete. 

I’ve blogged before about how memories can mar days forever and no day is more marred for me than January 26.And once a day gets sullied, then everything that happens on that day seems dark. Although my partner, Jack, never met dad, he too understood the importance of dad’s deathiversary. Our lovely old Boxer, Kora, began to fail in early January 2014. We watched her randomly topple over and as we neared the end of the month, we knew she was close to the end. We awoke on Sunday, January 26, to Kora lying on the basement floor in her own urine. Alive, yes, but her rear end had been immobilized likely by degenerative myelopathy, a genetic condition found in large breeds. As we took her to the vet that day, we knew we’d come home with one fewer in the car. And I knew whatever light had re-entered January 26, seven years on from dad’s death, it would darken again as a day.

Two years after that, Jack had his first chemo treatment on January 26. The significance of the day was not lost on me or Jack. My immediate concern was Jack’s health but previous traumas from the day weighed heavily. I distracted myself that day by colouring. 

When I awake on Wednesday I will think of mom, dad, Kora, and Jack but I will also contemplate how every day provides a chance to think about what that day means in our personal histories. 

Happy 94th birthday, mom!