David AGG

DAVID AGG

November 29, 1944 - February 10, 2018
Modernity inserts itself into all things, even grieving and how we announce our grief. A few hours after my father died, I posted some of my favourite recent pictures of him and a couple of older ones on Instagram. I thought about writing seven or eight elegant sentences in an attempt to highlight how much I loved him and what a huge influence he'd been on me, and y'know, maybe a little bit about him, but just couldn't find the words, so I chose the broken-hearted emoji for a caption, which didn't even feel cheap. It took a while for the callbacks to morph from the mirror responses of hearts and roses into words of support, which is really what we want and need in times of mourning, the acknowledgment from friends and family that we are loved, that our pain is theirs too.
I've been mourning my dad since his diagnosis of Alzheimer's six years ago. My mother called me and even though I knew it was true--there'd been signs--she'd had to insist, and I still refused to accept it. I cried every day for a week. As his disease worsened, with long plateaus in between descents, my mother acted as his primary caregiver with a dug-in stubbornness, at first politely declining help and later outright refusing it. Perhaps it was an attempt to sustain an illusion that nothing much had changed, though my brother and I could see what a strain it was on her, eventually contributing to her death from kidney failure (and a broken heart) three years ago.
So even though I've felt orphaned for some time, now it's official, and I'm not sure how to feel, because when someone you love is slowly having their tremendous mind snatched from them in scraps, it is difficult not to feel some sense of relief when they no longer have to suffer so assaulting an indignity (even if contracting pneumonia in an Alzheimer's ward is another, equally awful indignity--but at least one you can quiet with morphine).
My dad built his own life. One of my favourite stories is how he put himself through Western University by working whatever jobs he could, one of which was peeling potatoes in the school's cafeteria. He'd play games with himself, 'How many can I peel in ten minutes....in thirty minutes....in an hour?' and then try to best his records while peering out at a sea of hyper-privileged young men, thinking all the while 'I'm gonna leave you bastards in the dust.'
When he met my mother, Phyllis, he was teaching business at Birchmount Collegiate, where she taught French. She'd find excuses to visit his classroom and all the kids would file out, giggling. Their love was truly something to behold and set a standard for how important a great partner is. They married in 1969 and renewed their vows in a beautiful ceremony 40 years later. They were a perfect match, and brought out the best in each other. In 1975, after a very reasonable six years of childless bliss, they had me, were probably horrified at my insolence, and waited seven years to have my brother, Jonathan, who is a carbon copy of my mother, while I am basically a (slightly) more social version of my dad.
I grew up around a dinner table that was vibrant with conversations about politics and life, and after dinner, my dad and I would play chess. He never let me win, so the one time I did, I knew it meant something. He taught me how to think, and, through osmosis, he taught me that even though the world might not always be fair, working hard was its own reward--my god, that man had a strong work ethic. He was such a boot-strapper that, to be honest, it always surprised and delighted me that his inherent conservatism was mostly fiscal. That doesn't mean we didn't disagree about social issues--we did--but I can't help but think most of the time he was just trying to teach me to better articulate my ideas, and that he enjoyed being my foil.
He was always a bit of a loner who found solace in nature, so much so that he purchased a hundred acre farm a decade ago with the sole purpose of planting it with as many trees as possible. He'd get me to help and tell me we were just doing one row, then laugh and laugh as the row twisted and turned so that every time I'd think we'd reached the end there was, somehow, a new horizon around the corner.
After those long days, we'd sit on the porch, wrapped in blankets, and watch the sun set while we sipped rosé and talked. Sometimes he'd say something so precise, I'd forget his neural pathways were being clear cut with abandon. Occasionally, in the later years, I'd record our conversations -- which felt weird at the time, but has turned out to be a great comfort, just hearing the sound of his voice, knowing it lives in my phone.
We (my brother, Jonathan; his wife, Suzanne; my husband, Roland; and David's siblings, Joe, Peter and Stephanie, and their families) will miss him terribly. If you feel the urge to do something, and have the means, please donate to an Alzheimer's charity.
Written in grief by David's adoring daughter, Jen Agg.