These are the Nazis of our Lives

In 1981, when I was 8 years old, my father brought me to see Raiders of the Lost Ark in Ottawa, Ontario. He was a stoic man to whom fatherhood did not come naturally, but we always found our common ground at the movie theater. I remember the night well, from the amazing film itself right down to checking the back seat of our Zephyr for mummies on the way home. Tomorrow, I am taking him to that same city to see Kingdom of the Crystal Skull – and the circle will be complete.

The only thing more unlikely than a fourth Indiana Jones movie might be that I once again live near Canada’s capital city… or maybe the fact that my 66 year-old father has a form of dementia that makes Alzheimer’s look like a garden party. If someone had told me several years ago that any of those 3 events were right around the next corner I’d have cheered, packed a snowsuit and then punched a wall in that order. Situations are what they are, and I hope that he enjoys himself and retains memory of the day to the extent that he can. It’s extremely strange to feel yourself slowly starting to grieve for someone who you still see everyday. It doesn’t take a narration by Freud’s ghost to explicate that the trip tomorrow is really for me.

I don’t often get personal on this blog, because sentimentality doesn’t tend to fit in well with giant squid news and dead hooker jokes, but the last couple of months have been rough. Things are sinking in, priorities shifting, novelties wearing off and I am starting to – dare I say it – grow up. I have to perform some calculated fat-trimming to my personal and professional life if I’m to be truly prepared for my next adventure. Sometimes, closure wears a fedora and hates snakes.