My dad lived for 81 adventure-filled years. He could have called himself many things over the decades: motorcycle enthusiast, soldier, pilot, gardener, father, husband, engineer, world traveller, beer and wine maker, cook, actor, director, writer, mechanic, house designer and builder, photographer, model train and glider enthusiast.
But if someone had told me when I was growing up that in his mid-70s he would also add caregiver and hospice volunteer to that list, I would not have believed it.
It's not that I thought he wasn't capable of it; I just didn't think it would be something he would want to do. He was a man who knew how to have a good time, but I always felt that the deeper emotional aspects of life were too much for him.
He did not deal well with displays of emotion. An outburst would usually elicit a gentle but slightly nervous pat on the hand and a change of subject. He was most comfortable when he could joke his way out of "unpleasantness."
When I was about 13 and he was learning to fly small aircraft, he took me along on a flight over the top of Mount Baker. As he gracefully worked the plane into a gentle turn to get a good look at the massive volcanic crater that carves out the top of the mountain, I remember being so proud that he was my dad, and secretly wishing I could be more like him.
I was the shy child who spent most of my time reading and daydreaming and picking up stray animals from the neighbourhood, sneaking them home so I could take care of them.
When a friend's hamster had a litter, I wrapped their little pink, hairless bodies in a soft towel and carried them home inside my jacket, saving them from some terrible fate. I was happiest helping animals and people, making them comfortable and easing their pain, something I didn't think my father could ever understand.
When he was in his 70s, and I was in my 30s, he came to stay with my sister and me in Vancouver for a few days. At the time, I was working in a long-term care home for veterans, and part of my job was taking the residents on outings.
The second day of his visit, we were taking the veterans to the Abbotsford International Air Show, and my dad asked me if he could come with us as a volunteer. I knew this would appeal to him as the air show had been a yearly outing for us when we were growing up, and it was also held at the same airfield where he had earned his pilot's licence.
But I was worried about how he would handle it. Most of the men we worked with were quite ill, and many of them were considered palliative. Strokes had left several of them with difficulties walking, and many were unable to speak, or spoke in a way that made them difficult to understand.
Although I was busy keeping an eye on everybody, throughout the day I caught glimpses of my dad chatting with a few of the fellows about the particulars of different aircraft, helping them cut up their food and guiding them through the crowds to the washroom.
When he went back home to Summerland, B.C., he began volunteering at the Penticton hospital. His job was bringing water to patients and, of course, listening to them, talking with them and making them laugh. And he loved it.
After several years, the volunteer co-ordinator asked him if he would be interested in training to be a palliative care volunteer. She thought he would be "a natural."
He began spending a couple of afternoons a week at Moog & Friends Hospice, reading or just listening to the people who were spending their last days there.
He talked about what a calming place it was, and told me how happy he felt after being there.
When we found out that my dad had lung cancer, we knew he didn't have much time left. Treatment was not an option, and we were told that he was palliative. Keeping him comfortable was all we could really do.
He stayed at home for as long as he could, which gave us a chance to say things we might not have said otherwise. We talked about some surprising things during that time. We spent part of one evening discussing the best methods of making the perfect martini, and another night sat sobbing in the moonlit backyard, where he told me he was proud of me and that he admired what he called "my compassionate nature" and my ability to care for others.
When we could no longer care for him at home, we got a call from Moog & Friends Hospice and were told there was a bed for him there.
Although he died several days later at the hospice, they were peaceful days. Staff and volunteers would spend time with him when family members had gone home, telling him stories or just sitting quietly.
They put up a poster on the wall of his room that he could see from his bed. It read, "we love you, Bob!" in big letters, and it was filled with notes from family, friends, staff, volunteers and patients he had spent time visiting – all the people he had loved and cared for.
Lucy Wilkinson lives in Vancouver.