My life mantra has always been, “communication is key.” Anyone who knows me can attest to that. I care deeply for my family, my friends, even strangers, and I strive to treat people with empathy, kindness, and understanding. I have little patience for ignorance, and I preach compassion at every turn, always reminding my kids to be good humans, even to those who are unkind.Only recently I’ve understood why I feel so passionately about this: because life can be stripped away in an instant. That fragility has taught me that kindness and communication are not just principles to live by, they are lifelines, bridges that carry us through the unpredictable, fragile, and beautiful journey of life….I remember it like it was yesterday, November 4th, 2014. Traumatic. Life-altering. Only it wasn’t a movie, it was real life: my dad suffered a massive stroke. Just an hour earlier, we’d been on the phone, chatting like we always did. I’d asked if he wanted to join us in Mexico for my son’s soccer tournament. Normally he wouldn’t miss a chance to cheer on his grandson, but this time he said, “Maybe next year.” The line clicked, little did we know, “next year” would never come. That would be our last real conversation.I get morbid thoughts, often, and yes, my therapist is basically on speed dial (might as well add me to her family group chat). I always find myself wondering if I’ll live long enough to walk my kids down the aisle, babysit my grandkids, or grow old with my husband. It’s been an awful looping playlist in my head, but it’s also… understandable. I’ve been shaken, and it’s made me question everything - my purpose, my friendships, while trying to hold on to my sense of humour so the worry doesn’t win. Life can flip in a nanosecond, we all know that. One moment everything feels certain, the next it’s unrecognizable. That’s why it matters to love fiercely, to live gratefully and to truly cherish the gift of love when it’s returned to us.The call came an hour after we hung up the phone, the kind of call that knocks the air right out of you. I left my kids behind and flew to Toronto to be by my dad’s side. Walking into that hospital room I saw my father, my knight in shining armour, strapped to a gurney motionless, his eyes glazed as they stared at the ceiling. The man who had always filled every room with noise and laughter - was suddenly silent.Childhood memories are put together like little snapshots. Some of my happiest moments are of our yard in Montreal, where I grew up. The smell of freshly cut grass always meant Daddy was home. We were happy then, running through sprinklers, chasing soccer balls he’d pass to us. He loved soccer, always ready for a game, though now it’s something he can no longer do. I also remember being five or six, stretched out on a beach chair beside him, convinced he was my prince. He was protective and always there to keep me safe. Those are my memories. He was funny, sarcastic, stubborn, kind-hearted, and relentlessly hard-working. But life was never simple for our family. Like many, we faced challenges that felt like steep mountains, obstacles that demanded every ounce of strength to climb. At times, I can’t help but wonder if years of stress eventually paved the way for my father’s current state.Back in 1989, a shameless group of thieves stole my father’s business, and with it, they robbed me and my sister of the carefree childhood we should have had. Suddenly, at sixteen, I was old enough to see the cracks forming - financial struggles, emotional battles, and the weight of watching my parents fight for air while waves of hardship kept crashing over them. Through it all, I always reminded myself, What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I repeated it like a lifeline, even till today. It’s wild how one significant moment can alter your entire path. I was young at the time, but old enough to know life would never be the same. I still remember my father crying in my arms, inconsolable - a sight I’d never seen before. Years later, history repeated itself in a different way. This time, I wasn’t just his daughter; I became a ‘caregiver’. Whether I truly believed my own words “everything will be okay” remained a mystery.Seeing him so helpless on a gurney, my once strong protector, was shattering. The prognosis was grim, the first seventy-two hours critical. By day three he could barely sit without falling. All we could do was pray for a miracle. We were told he would never walk again. But with patience, encouragement, and endless love, we slowly helped him believe he could, and eventually, he did. Speaking, however, was a different battle. The stroke left my dad with Global Aphasia, a severe form of non-fluent aphasia that stole his words, leaving him trapped in silence despite understanding everything around him.While living in Mexico, I arranged for my dad to stay with us for a few months, trying everything I could to help him - from hyperbaric oxygen therapy to physical rehabilitation. I spent hours playing dominoes with him, helping him match numbers and colors, and guiding him as he tried to write his name and fill in the missing numbers. I knew he understood how much we wanted to help, and I knew he could feel our love surrounded him constantly. I often try to imagine what he must feel like. Fully present, yet unable to join a conversation. Wanting so desperately to speak but trapped without words. Others assume you mean one thing when your mind has something entirely different. You are alive, breathing, moving… but utterly unable to express yourself. It’s awful. I remind my mom to focus on gratitude rather than dwell on what she’s lost - though I know that’s easier said than done. She’s endured the most, and I sometimes find her quietly grieving the man she married so many years ago, while watching the “new” him struggle every day. I’ve had to lean on my faith, having countless conversations with God, pleading for any sign of hope. I truly believe He answered, sending us a profound message through my father.The day my dad spoke his first meaningful words after his stroke; we were at home playing dominoes. I’d learned to meet his limitations with humor, to make him laugh as much as possible. I’d share little secrets my kids had told me, things no one else should know, and finish with, “But don’t tell anyone, Daddy!” We’d both burst into laughter.That day, as I watched him giggle at my ridiculous jokes, I casually told him how much I loved him. And just like that, he said it back:“I love you!”I froze. My father, who hadn’t spoken a word in almost a year, had just spoken the words I longed to hear. I fought to hold back tears. With aphasia and apraxia, repeating words is often impossible, but I whispered it again, “I love you, Daddy.” And once more, he echoed it perfectly: “I love you.”That moment, simple yet miraculous, is etched into my memory forever. It was proof that even in the quietest silence, love can speak. Eleven years later, he is still here with us, watching his grandchildren grow and enjoying the entertaining chaos around him. He still cannot speak, but the only words he can still say are “I love you.” Remarkable. A miracle? Or perhaps a kind of divine intervention, proof that the force of his love for his family gave him the ability to offer us this extraordinary gift. Holding onto these small miracles, even when the odds were stacked against us, has kept me grounded, at peace, and feeling blessed.Even though my dad can’t speak, he understands everything around him. He laughs with us often, and sometimes he cries alone, frustrated by his loss of independence. His hands, once the tools of his livelihood, guided mine as a child, now need my guidance. I’ve accepted that life will never be the same, yet I’m profoundly grateful we can still feel the warmth of his hugs, hear his laughter at our stories, and see him smile at his grandchildren, always ready with a snuggle or gentle kiss. He listens to us intently, as he always did, when we share our lives, our struggles, and our joys. We interpret his advice through the wisdom in his beautiful green eyes, imagining the words he would speak if he could.I am grateful beyond measure, because I truly believe our love has been the force that strengthened him, keeping him here with us, slightly altered, limited in ability, yet with a heart still overflowing with love. I’ve always believed love comes in many forms, and I now strongly feel it is the force behind the small miracles we’ve witnessed since his stroke. I’ve seen proof that love truly can heal, even in the most impossible circumstances, because love speaks in ways – words never can.
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