When my father died in April, he had fulfilled his goals - including his last goal of reaching 85, although he just squeaked that one in there by dying on his birthday. Although the family was sad that he died, we were also relieved that his final illness was blessedly short instead of turning into an extended period of torture and loss.
This week much of Canada mourns the death of Jack Layton, the New Democrat leader who finally managed to bring the New Democrats to the point of official opposition. He died at the age of 61, and while he accomplished many things in his life, he died with unfinished business. He had made a comeback after prostate cancer, but then died of another kind. That sense that he had unfinished business - and for him that business was definitely that he planned to be our next Prime Minister - seems to have compounded the sense of loss felt by his supporters and by people who might not have agreed with his politics but who recognized in him a man who was truly dedicated to public service.
Neither of these deaths is on my back stoop.
On my back stoop is Emil. He stops by once a week or so to see if we have any bottles or cartons for the bottle depot. Sometimes he asks if we have any work he could do. Emil is homeless. I am pretty sure he has struggles with alcohol abuse. A year ago Emil could still work, and he could carry on a conversation, and you had to wonder how a reasonably attractive and fit man ended up on the streets.
But Emil has undergone a change. He has lost weight, he is weak, and he is frightened. According to Emil, he has lung cancer.
This week he showed up at the back stoop to see if we had any food and enough money for LRT fare so he could get to the hospital for his tests. He is urinating blood, he says, and he is afraid his kidneys have been affected. He is allowed food, but he is not allowed to drink until after the tests. He is not very steady on his feet, and as he tells me this his eyes well up and he says, "I'm scared. I'm really scared."
There are con men who will use this kind of tale to extort money from kind strangers. Emil is not entirely a stranger - he is a neighbour, albeit one without a home. I have no reason to disbelieve him. He is sick and homeless and frightened.
I give him some food. At our house the food is basic - some tomato, pieces of cheese, rice cakes, fruit salad with raspberries from our garden. I give him what change I have in my pocket - it's not enough to pay the LRT fare, but he tells me he has 75 cents already so it will be enough.
We are headed out to a meeting about the new community centre, so Emil takes the food and goes away. Later I find a piece of tomato and the plastic fork in the grass, fallen from his unsteady hands.
My father died with the support and love of his family and friends. Jack Layton died with the support of millions of people. Emil, whose life was already precarious, is hanging on to his last shreds of courage and dignity. To suggest that Emil has a fighting chance of beating cancer is almost obscene. If the disease can beat Jack Layton, with the resources and support and pluck he had, what hope can Emil have?
