My father’s accomplishments in the service of his community, his
church, his profession, and his country are a matter of record. Doctor, Member of the
Order of Canada, president of numerous organizations, chair of many committees and groups,
tireless worker for just causes -- while these may define his career and achievements,
they do not adequately describe the special place he occupied in the hearts of his family,
and the role he played in their lives. It is to this more private part of his life that I
wish to devote my remarks.
To Maura he was her best friend, her love, and her life. To his children he was the
kindest, most understanding father imaginable. To his brothers and sisters he was a pillar
of strength.
Dad’s life was working with people. Sure he’d get frustrated by some
committee or bored with a particular meeting, but accomplishing goals with others was the
driving force in his life. He knew people could make a difference if they all pulled
together. He would place his trust in others, and they returned it in spades. Dad knew
that placing trust and high expectations upon someone would more than likely result in a
job well done. I’ll share the following illustration, though I hope the statute of
limitations on driving infractions doesn’t exceed 25 years. Dad was a busy man, and
he often traveled on business. I was always a big kid for my age, and I was fascinated
with cars. Once when I was about 14 and on a school break, he took me to Regina for a
meeting. He was behind on paperwork, and muttered about catching up as he drove, so I
laughingly said, "Hey, Dad, why don’t I drive, and you can work?" He gave
me a long sideways look, measured me up and down, and to my mixed horror and excitement
said: "Do you think you can handle it?" He pulled over, we switched places, and
he got the safest, smoothest, and slowest ride of his life from Saskatoon to Regina. His
only tip: "Don’t drive too slowly or you’ll make the police
suspicious."
Throughout his life, even as his career advanced and he took on responsibilities up to
the international level, Dad retained an unpretentious, childlike wonder about life,
society and the world. He would gleefully recount events at ceremonies, laughing at all
the pomp and circumstance. "Whoo-weee! You should have seen the food, the
decorations, the clothes!" Yet he was always, shall we say, modest, about his
personal appearance. Raissa remembers meeting Dad in Victoria when she was living on the
West Coast and he was out for a conference. He took time out of his schedule to take a
long walk with her through Victoria’s Uplands area of mansions and Mercedes-Benzes.
Dad was wearing his customary navy suit and tie, and navy trench coat, as they walked
through a light rain having a deep father-daughter talk. Raissa recalls turning toward him
to make an important point, only to stop mid-sentence and stare in wonder, for unbeknownst
to her, he’d placed a hotel shower cap on his head to keep his hair dry. She realized
then that cars had been slowing down not to stare at the immense estates, but to ogle the
strange apparition walking beside her. However, as a good daughter, she bit her tongue.
Maura and several other people can confirm this behavior. Dad never passed up a free
shower cap.
Dad perfected the power nap. He was admired for his ability to snooze any time,
anywhere. Likely developed during days of getting up before dawn to feed the livestock and
going to sleep well after sunset as he was growing up on the farm, and then reinforced
during the long, chaotic hours of medical school and internship, he could drop off for 20
minutes and arise completely rejuvenated. This behaviour had the occasional drawback,
however. He came home from the office one day chortling about scaring the wits out of his
secretary. Feeling the need to recharge, he had dropped onto the floor in front of his
desk for a few winks, only to have his secretary walk in and scream, thinking he’d
had a heart attack. I also recall helping out at the farm -- Dad was driving a tractor
late on a summer evening, and I was a five- or six-year-old sitting in his lap. I was
drifting in and out of slumber as the sun set, nodding off to the rhythmic sound of the
engine and the surging and rocking as we traversed the soft, black earth. Well, I guess
Dad thought he could time a nap into a lap down the field, for the next thing I remember
was a resounding thump as we drove over a fence post.
I pity the speakers who follow me tonight. I know Dad is listening to this, and his
eyelids are probably already half-closed….
Faithful is a word that describes Dad perfectly. Faithful to his mother, whom he
visited almost daily, or telephoned no matter where he was. Faithful to his family and
friends who could always count on him to be there with his empathy and level-headed
reasoning no matter what the issue, or the circumstance. Just like he always phoned his
mother, Dad had a soft spot for all lonely people, and I suspect there are many in this
room who miss him as his family does. Whenever I was in town for a visit, and we had plans
to do things together, I’d find him in his office on the phone. "Just ten more
minutes," he’d say. "I just want to call Mrs. X because her husband is in
the hospital" or, "I’ll just check on Mr. Y, because his wife passed away
last month…." He never lost that personal touch, never forgot the value of a
kind word.
Dad had a temper, but you would be hard-pressed to unleash it. He preferred reasoning
to shouting, persuasion to obstinacy, and logic to anger. I don’t think he ever
raised his hand to his children. The closest I recall to getting a walloping was one
Sunday morning when I was about 10 and starting to question authority. The time to leave
for church was fast approaching, and I was sitting on the stairs whining that I
didn’t want to go. After about 10 minutes of "debate," my eyes popped in
amazement as Dad suddenly came charging up the stairs, picked me up by the seat of my
quivering PJs, carried me to my room, looked me straight in the eye, and told me to be
dressed and back downstairs in 3 minutes.
Dad was a liberated man before his time. If there was work to be done, it got done --
it didn’t matter if it was "women’s" work, or if it was something
people thought a person of his supposed stature shouldn’t have to do. Kitchen apron
or surgical smock, it made no difference to him. And that approach to work and life is
what led to his accomplishments. He was not a natural student who breezed through classes.
He had to struggle. It was hard work, discipline and perseverance that resulted in the
honors that befell him in his later years. Honors that he accepted with a mixture of
embarrassment, and, as he would readily admit, a touch of pride.
Dad was born in a simple house on a Saskatchewan farm in 1927. Life was far from easy
growing up in the 30s and 40s, as his brother and sisters, and many of his generation in
the audience here today, can attest to. Yet there were lighter moments. Dad’s father
made his own wine, and one day he and Baba went somewhere, leaving Dad in charge of the
younger children. Well, the future Medical Director of the Saskatchewan Alcohol and Drug
Abuse Commission immediately dropped into the cellar, pulled out a gallon jug, and poured
tots for the tots who were eager to taste this strange liquid that only adults could have.
They topped the jug off with water, put it back, and proceeded with their tasting event.
Yuck! It was awful! But what to do with all the full glasses? Perhaps Teddy the German
Shepherd dog would drink the stuff. No way, he snorted. He gagged and yowled, yet obedient
to the core, he didn’t bite the children as they poured it down his throat. He was
soon staggering around the house throwing up, and when Dido got home, nobody knew what
mysterious ailment had afflicted poor Teddy, who was thrown outside to sweat off his
sickness. Some people suspect that Dad spent all those years as a doctor in the addictions
field as atonement for that day, for he loved animals.
Dad had no affinity for organized sports. He was known to ask people watching a hockey
game what quarter it was. He was fanatical about staying in shape, though. He ate well,
took his vitamins, and exercised regularly. Everyone in the family at some point walked
into a room at a get-together to find Dad doing calisthenics or stretching exercises.
Whenever he had a physical, he’d always be told he had the body of somebody 20 years
younger. Raissa’s husband Bill, a California boy, learned about Dad’s stamina
first-hand one Christmas in the snowy wastes of Wildwood golf course where Dad took him
cross-country skiing. After a lap or two, as Bill fell farther and farther behind in the
-30 degree cold, he came up with a description of the event that became forever known in
family history as "Dr. Demento’s Death March."
The Cipywnyk name had its pluses and minuses. One drawback I was reminded of as I was
working on this eulogy at Dad’s desk in his office, is spelling. The Bachelor of
Arts, Master of Science and Doctor of Medicine degrees over his desk all have different
spellings of his name. Yet there were benefits as well. He was driving through the States
back in the 70s and was pulled over by a highway patrolman who had an issue with
accelerating through yellow lights. Dad handed over his drivers license, the trooper
perused it for a long time with furled brow, and finally said: "How do you say your
name and address?" "Well," said Dad, "I’m Doctor Dmytro Cipywnyk
of 406 Quance Avenue, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan." The trooper thought about that for a
minute, sighed, and said: "Well Doc, I dunno about where you come from, but here,
green means go, yellow means SLOW DOWN, and red means stop. You be careful, you
hear?"
Dad loved being outdoors. He loved driving to the cabin at Wakaw Lake with our little
dog Ergie draped over his shoulders. He loved her so much, he never had the heart to get
another dog when she died. I think one of the little rituals he most enjoyed was stepping
outside the cabin with Ergie at the lake just before going to bed, so the two of them
could "commune with nature" together. The chickadees and squirrels will miss
him, though perhaps the beavers that gnawed his beloved poplars will get some relief. He
loved thunderstorms and the sound of rain on a roof. Raissa remembers that even in the
city, when the sky crackled with lightning and the ground shook with thunder, he’d
drop everything and sit with her for hours on the front steps, tasting the electricity in
the air and drinking in the storm as it made its way over the University fields.
Dad had an open, questing mind. Though he had little time for relaxation, he always
read books on a wide variety of subjects, and kept his finger on the pulse of his
community and nation. He was an adventuresome eater and would try anything. He surprised
my wife Yumi by wanting a portion of everything we had when he and Maura visited us in
Japan, including some raw fish at a sushi place, and varieties of green tea. He even
partook of the hottest, most garlicky kimchi when visiting Raissa and Bill in Korea.
In his younger days Dad dabbled with playing the violin. That activity fell fallow for
decades, but he took it up again in his 70s, telling Maura it was good for his soul. He
reveled in taking lessons and getting together with friends for basement jam sessions to
scrape out Ukrainian folk songs and dances. In a moving effort, he fought off a bad case
of stage fright to play "Amazing Graze" at Maura’s mother’s funeral
last year, because Mom Gillis had loved to listen to him play.
And on that final note, this sharing of stories must come to an end, as all stories,
and lives do. I’d like to say a few more words in Ukrainian describing the man my
father was, and how we are going to remember him.
Ukrainian conclusion.
We love you, Dad.