My Dad. Tony Whelan. A proud Irishman, born on St. Patrick’s Day. I was privileged to be raised by this extraordinary man. I have written many pieces about him over the years, not just because our relationship was so emotionally colourful but because his life screamed to be written about. And so I will continue to write. This is the follow up piece to the article I wrote for him three years ago for my column, dedicated to him, written about him, for his birthday.
It was to be his last birthday. My Dad: My Greatest Influence
Dad died of ALS July 25, 2016. He was a storyteller, a dancer and a unique, well-rounded character. The disease first slowly took his ability to walk, then slowly took his ability to talk. For those of us who knew Dad over the years, he was an exuberant free-thinker who prided himself on being the black sheep of the family. For those who were just meeting him at Northland Pointe Long-Term Care as we moved him in November 2014, he was a mumbling, then silent little old man – with animated eyes.
Shortly after that first day, I went on a mission to at least keep those eyes animated for as long as they could.
I began to put together a scrapbook.
This idea came to me as my daughter Morgan, a friend Dolly and I spent many days going through Dad’s apartment, sorting through a lifetime of belongings, piece by piece, to clean the space out.
You see, I knew that if my dad was to live in that hospital-like environment but with his ability to speak, he would be talking the nurses and co-residents’ ears off with his stories. I couldn’t even imagine the torture that it was for him to have lost the one thing he loved to do most and did the most often — tell his stories; share his knowledge; charm, educate and enlighten everyone around him.
I started with what was planned to be the beginning of an on-going project – 75 items. The goal was to place them into the scrapbook chronologically with tape (so we could move them if needed), leaving blank spaces and blank pages, displaying the incredible life of Tony Whelan with certificates, report cards, programs, newspaper clippings, letters, homemade phonograph recordings, business cards, and of course photos.
The plan was to give the scrapbook to Dad for Christmas so he could start to use it as an extension of himself; a tool to tell his stories since he was no longer able to. He would simply point and let the book speak for him. The blank spaces and pages were left so we could work on the book together after Christmas. Before filling in the blanks, I would say the captions and stories out loud and he would nod to let me know I got the facts straight, as we had learned how to do whenever we were together and talking with others. I had learned when it was my cue to start reciting one of his stories, looking over at him to make sure I got the details right; the nod, the proudly mischievous grin, the animated eyes.
The story starts with a certificate my grandmother, his mom, received in 1920 for completion of music lessons and exams at the London College of Music. Each page holds a story of Dad’s life, beginning with the people who created him.
He was a wealth of information, labelled the “go-to expert” of the Niagara Region (Ontario, Canada) for anything genealogical. It seemed his life mission to gather an abundance of data about every family and every historical event in the area.
Sadly, Dad’s health, abilities, mood and motivation to continue the scrapbook diminished after Christmas and our visits were focused on more practical and immediate issues. However, I was aware, through feedback from Northland Pointe’s staff, that Dad was using the scrapbook as it was on good days, to proudly show who the real Tony Whelan was, inside the worn-out, quickly-paralyzing body.
This was Dad’s legacy. His immortality.
He continued withering away for another year and a half in long-term care before he chose to end it; a plan we decided on two years prior. When he had had enough, before he could not make this decision on his own, he would simply refuse food and water for several days and then when he was really weak, he would find a way to ask for an increase in his pain medication. He chose my daughter’s birthday to do this. However, it took him three days to actually let go. During this time, I held his hand in my one hand, his parents’ pictures in my other hand, and silently called on his parents to come and get their son.
(From another article written in memory of the unique Tony Whelan, Let’s Get This Party Started).
In the last moments of this lifetime together with my dad, I found this to be the perfect and most meaningful gesture of my love for him I could think of. I smiled down at him, feeling his parents close by, ready and waiting for him. I said to him, “Ok, Dad. Time for a wonderful, new adventure.” I reached down, kissed his forehead and whispered, “Toot-a-loo. Chug-a-lug”, as we said every night he tucked me in as a little girl.
The next time I saw him, he was gone.
I am continuing to fill in the scrapbook, in honour of his birthday this year, revisiting the life he created for himself. I can feel him with me today, as I write this for you. I can see his nod in my mind. I can sense his mischievous smile. And this time I can feel his arms around me as my tears fall. He is no longer stifled by horrible disease. After he let go July 25, 2016 I felt him dancing around me and chattering up a verbal storm for days. He did not die on that day.
He was released.
I am so grateful for what you have given me in this lifetime, Dad. You live on through the work that I do. For I am you and now you are me. I love you. And again I say, you are my hero. Toot-a-loo and Chug-a-lug.
Me, when I was younger: “Dad, you are eccentric.”
Dad, smiling proudly: “No Chris, eccentric people have lots of money. I don’t have lots of money. So, I’m not eccentric. I’m just weird.”
Christine Whelan 
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