At last count, dad had about three or four iPods, in varying models. He never quite seemed to grasp the concept that once it was full of songs you could simply update it with new songs, so I guess he bought a new one each time. They collected in a pile of shamefully defunct, misused technology. He loved his music and would play it at volumes, often bordering on obnoxious. He has one of those portable players and – despite having it often within arms reach – he would use the mini remote control to turn the volume up. Mid conversation, no big deal. “You must listen to this excellent song about a Combine Harvester” cranks up volume “Ok, Dad. Ok!”
I work in an open concept office. The neighbouring team is made up of a loud talking man with a lisp and a thick Indian accent, his lack of volume control suggests that he might be somewhat deaf, nearby sits a young man, who laughs honks at everything anyone says like a nervous prepubescent goat, and woman who loudly cackle-laughs until she coughs so incessantly, that I worry she might have swallowed an unwell hyena. Out of necessity, not luxury, I splurged last summer and bought myself a pair of noise cancelling BOSE headphones. The kind that encompass your ears, are big and squishy and make your head feel like its being attacked by angels having a pillow fight. I was very pleased with myself. Bliss.
We gave them to dad to use in the ICU, for him to drown out the noises of everything beeping and unhealthy around him. He escaped from his trapped, sedentary-body-cage by watching movies to temporarily transport him away from all the unbearable reality with music and sounds of the life he had been extracted from. His almost immediate calm acceptance of the violent unfairness of it all is something I will always hold the greatest respect and honour towards.
I brought the headphones back with me after the funeral. I didn’t really know what else to do with them. I felt different towards them, reluctant for them to once again cancel out my trivial daily world annoyances. They were the same headphones Trudy used to play him nature sounds, while he slowly drifted off to a place that can exist only in the fragmented imagination of the living. I can still smell his cologne on the big pillowy parts. Dad loved his cologne, almost as much as he loves his rubbish most excellent music. Mum shaved him and put on a nice fresh splash for him every morning.
I felt sad the first time I tried to use them, like the constant memory of the worst time was wrapped around my head, but Trudy reminded me to only think about how happy they made him. And they really did make him happy. So now instead I choose to think that I have some of his awesomeness cushioning my ears and swatting away the annoyances of life. The choice of thought is the most potent of our allies.
Thankfully goat-lad has since been transferred, but I still use them religiously. (see ref. to lisp-guy and cackle-cough woman) They are also excellent at protecting your ears from the Canadian winter, the wind-chill was -28 this morning; a temperature that no human skin should be subjected to. I am sure they played a huge role today in making sure my face didn’t fall off and shatter on the frozen ground, leaving me with an awkward neck stub. I did have a couple of my fingers fall right off because I was trying to text, kidding… all my fingers fell off, I am typing now with my elbows.
My dad is everywhere I look, and I know that from now on every time my ears are toasty warm and my mind is clear of silly distractions and instead filled with happy music, it will be yet another thing to remind me of him.
