David Wickware's Cryptic Comment

From his hospital bed, my father asked me, “How do you prepare for death?”

As I frantically searched my mind for a response that might provide some measure of comfort, he answered his own question: “you don’t.”

The life of Walter David Wickware was not a success story in the traditional sense. But few could doubt the man’s charisma, tenacity and optimism. He didn’t need to prepare for death because he would never die.

Mom and Dad circa 1970

In the 1970s, Dave was a suburban family man with two young sons and a good job at IBM. But this was not to be his station in life. He was a natural-born rebel and rainmaker. So in 1982, he left home to pursue grander ambitions. My mom was shocked. I was nine years old and my brother was three.

Within a few years, Dave was in business. For a while, we worked shoulder-to-shoulder at his movie catering company, delivering vats of Dave’s World Famous Three Bean Salad to film sets in a silver van that said “For Stars Food Productions” on the side. We got to meet Alan Alda.

When Dave got together with his second wife in 1988, he closed the catering business and became the Canadian sales representative of a U.S. computer hardware firm that sold RAID arrays to banks. Those were high times. He and Barbara had a nice house in Thornhill, high-end cars, and a 34-foot long boat.

But a reversal of fortune came one winter morning in 1991. Dave slipped on an icy embankment in his backyard and ruptured the patella tendons in both knees at the same time. Doctors had never seen anything like it. He was crippled, and spent the next year undergoing surgery and rehabilitation.

During an extended stay at St. John’s Rehabilitation Centre, Dave’s spirit shone through. Late one night, with barely enough mobility to operate a car, he was stopped by nurses attempting to sneak a gang of residents out for ice cream.

Working hard at IBM

Still, the accident cost him dearly. By the time he was back on his feet, he had lost his wife, his job, his home, his car and his boat. This was one of the many times I tried to feel sorry for my dad. But he made it very difficult, because he refused to feel sorry for himself.

Before long, Dave was featured on the front cover of Orillia’s daily newspaper pitching a plan to convert the town’s abandoned steel foundry into a world-class shopping and sports entertainment megaplex. He was actually living inside the derelict building at the time. When city council nixed the plan, he wasted no time moving on.

One day as I pulled in to visit him, he was already pulling out, steering in reverse with one hand and rolling down the window with the other. "Come on, son! We're outta here, follow me!"

Dave was always moving. He invested in sandwich shops and fitness clubs. He sold yachts. He imported half a million glow sticks from China, and narrowly missed out on a software scheme worth millions more. He turned at least two cars into twisted metal, and was once dragged around Lake Couchiching behind a runaway bass boat.

In 1999, Dave appointed himself agent and promoter of my fledgling rock band. He seized the task with such charm and determination that MuchMusic virtually ignored my band, and instead aired a segment about a wily music industry impresario known simply as “Dave the Dad.”

Don't ask me how he did it, but one night after a gig at Arlene's Grocery on New York's lower east side, I was stopped by a strange girl on my way to the dressing room. She handed me a handwritten note from my dad telling me how proud he was of me.

25 years later, my dad's vision is sort of coming true

By the time he met his third partner, Anne, Dave the Dad was suffering from emphysema and heart disease. He had to leave my last gig at the Horseshoe Tavern in an ambulance. He was too ill to attend my wedding.

Rather than lose hope, he channeled his passion into spirituality and natural medicine. He became close to a mysterious Reiki healer from Peru. He hosted seminars on the health benefits of ginseng, and intended to write an autobiography that would teach the world about the healing power of love. I promised to be his editor.

My dad died on March 7, 2007. A few days before that, I visited him in the ICU of Toronto Western Hospital. There were no family or friends around. He looked like a head attached to a spindly root where a robust body used to be.

He took my hand and whispered, “Son, the greatest disappointment in my life involves you. I have found you to be…”

His voice trailed off. I squeezed his cold hand tighter. The anxiety was gut-wrenching. Through every twist and turn, no one had loved and admired my dad more than I had. What did he want to tell me?

“…would you please get me some ice cream?”

* * *

A year and a bit after my dad passed away, I recorded this song.