In the early spring of 1984, Dad returned home from Burnaby Hospital, weaker and slower than before.

He drove us home in his car, and I cannot describe my fear and alertness during that particular ride. Dad had been silent during the drive too, which he rarely was behind the wheel. That told me he was scared.

When we arrived home at Park Place, he insisted on walking unaided (except for his new wooden cane) for over 100 meters from our parking space around to our front door.

He was laser-focused on his proud march, (stubborn bastard that he was), trudging stoically past the concerned but welcoming faces of our neighbours and friends. “Hello Jim” echoed to his left, but his stroke impairment rendered their hesitant and confused well-wishes all but invisible to him.

I think Dad just wanted his whole heart attack and stroke ordeals to be over and done with. He wasn’t going to brag about his recovery. He didn’t want to tell this particular story to anyone. It was in the past. He seemed uncomfortable with any attention and became more of a homebody than before. I think he knew how weak he really felt and it might have scared him a bit.

In his younger days, Dad had been an adventurous spirit, a doer, a decider, and a natural leader. Now, he was weak-bodied and quiet. Life had given him a real good kicking, and he was tired.

On that first day back, I remember Dad plunking down in his beloved harvest gold recliner in the livingroom, and letting out a little sigh. All his familiar things were next to him: the little chairside table that held his old tube set radio and his plastic drinking glass that he used to drink sherry from. He was finally home.

I watched Dad eyeing his sherry glass, and I wondered if he could avoid drinking from now on. That was the only question that mattered to me.