The Quilt

In 1999 it became necessary to have my Father institutionalized. It was a very trying time for my Mother as it was for the whole family. The decision to do so was inevitable, the question of where Dad would end up was the real issue. In the end we were very fortunate to place Dad in the VMB Halifax's Camp Hill Veterans Memorial building. It had all the facilities and wonderful programs to keep the veterans busy. Still it was an institution; they can be very cold places. The staff is what saved us, they breathed life and warmth into the cold sterile walls. Within weeks of his arriving they asked us to put together a memory book for my Dad. It didn't have to be anything fancy, just a collection of family pictures and mementos of the life that each veteran head lived prior to coming here. It served a couple of purposes, it was a way to keep the men and women in touch with home and their former world. Many suffered from Dementia or Alzheimer's and the book could be therapeutic. It also served another purpose, it humanized or perhaps more correctly re humanized the patients. In such an institution it would be easy for staff to see the patients as faceless, their personality and voices largely wiped clean by the scourges of time and disease.They had become symptoms. The books breathed life back into these men and women who had served our country so well under the most horrible circumstances. I guess in a Veterans building you would expect this, but it also showed that they had lives after the service, they worked, they raised families and they contributed to their church and communities. Over the years we have all seen horrible videos and heard horror stories of nursing home staff who have abused patients. The VMB was taking measures to see that this did not happen.


My brother undertook the project with his usual zeal. He used his computer skills and his skills as a writer of training manuals to put together an impressive volume, outlining the life of my father before he found himself in Camp Hill. It was shown to staff and visitors. It was very popular and definitely helped humanize my Dad to those who had only known the shell of a man left by the progress of his condition. As well as the book, there were shadow boxes outside of each door that allowed the vets to put some personal items in that would make a statement about what kind of person lived there. These were sensible remedies for the almost inevitable dehumanization of these types of institutions. There was one other very visible project that was undertaken by the staff and the vets shortly after my father arrived. It was a quilt, seven columns of five squares. Thirty five Vets, each square contained the name of one Vet and a few stitched on pieces of cloth to represent something about the man. There were musical instruments, fishing rods, pets, flowers, sports equipment, favorite books and much more. Each square summed up something about the individual, something of his character. These icons gave you a feel for the person, often an opening gambit for a conversation. I have had conversations about fishing, hunting, sports and other hobbies I have shared with one of the men on the quilt.

Over time some of the men on the quilt passed away. "None of them will ever leave here." My Mother remarked sadly one day as we read of yet another Veteran who had left us. As the years went by the number of men on the quilt who were still alive began to dwindle. I began to look on the quilt with a different eye. It began to become like a death knell. I started to have reservations about the quilt, looking at it as a list of the fallen. A thing of sadness. I live in the NWT and so my visits were restricted to my annual holidays. Each year the quilters thinned until finally I looked at my Mother and remarked "He's the only one left." It was so for nearly two years. Dad had been in the VMB for eight years when he too passed away.

True to form the wonderful staff of Six West turned out in force at my Father's funeral. Over ten of them were there, nearly all of the regular staff. "Who's holding down the Fort?" I asked one of the nurses. She informed me that they had all made special arrangements for other staff from different floors to cover their shifts. Our family was greatly touched. "You must come see us when you come home on holidays." she insisted. I promised that I would. When summer came my wife and I made our way up to the sixth floor. It was hard to walk past Dad's room. It had been his home for so long. To see someone else's picture in the Shadow box and to see different decorations on the wall brought a lump to my throat. Lina and I approached the nursing station and were greeted by hugs and handshakes. We had sent a fruit basket the day before as a small token of our gratitude for the love that these people had shared with the Vets. After a few minutes we wandered into the lounge where the quilt still hung on the wall. I was a bit taken aback. I don't know why but I had assumed that since mt Dad was the last one to go that they would take it down. My eyes scanned the squares, line by line. As I read each name, I pictured each of them. I remembered something special about them all. A tear crept down my cheek and I wiped away, but not before my Wife had noticed and tenderly squeezed my hand. I hadn't been prepared for this. "I never thought it would still be here." I said in a thick and unsteady voice. "They are all gone now. I thought they might take it down." "I hope they never do." She said. "It's like they are still here." I hadn't thought of it quite that way. To me it had been a reminder of death. It had been made by caring hands to capture something of the humanity of those who time and ill health had robbed of their individuality. It had been meant to give voice to the silent. To allow someone who knew nothing of each of the thirty five rugged individualists to have a key to unlock the silence between strangers and give them the material to build bonds. It was still serving a purpose. It wasn't a reminder of death, it was a reminder of life. It was a way of saying "We were here, don't forget us." I too hope they never take it down. I hope that it continues to memorialize those thirty five special men.