I want to talk to you about a great man: my father, Dr. Paul David, founder and long-time director of Montreal’s Institut de Cardiologie, who later on embarked on a new career in the Canadian Senate.The final period of his life is less well-known, but he lived it with the same perseverance and sense of challenge he’d shown earlier in life. What happened was that Papa suffered a CVA that left him aphasic and partially paralyzed. His aphasia was severe. He couldn't say a word, couldn't write. Many people might think that with such limitations, a person so afflicted no longer has much meaning to his life, no longer has much to give to those around him or to society at large. Let me tell you our story, his story.

When his CVA struck, we took turns staying with him in the hospital. I didn't want to lose him so soon. Though I knew that the damage was irreversible, I told myself that we still needed him. Actually, I couldn't imagine how much courage it would take for him to maintain a connection with the world – or how much he would be able to give us. When he came home after six months of convalescence, we sensed that the hour for making choices had sounded for him: was he going to live or just get by, would he try, along with his spouse and all the rest of us, to arrange for some moments of happiness, or was he going to slip peacefully away? He decided to stay fully alive in our midst, mindful of the smallest events in our lives and lavishing affection on us! He had plenty to keep him busy: his spouse, his six grown children, his seven grandchildren, his sisters, his caregivers, former secretaries, very close friends. We all talked to him about our lives. Frankly, at first when he asked me to talk about what was going on in my life or my family’s, I only wanted to amuse him, keep him busy, help him pass the time… But I quickly realized that his way of listening, his warm reactions, were of tremendous benefit to me. And far from quite simply slipping away, time stopped for us, then and there. Finally, beyond the things we did together (play cards, watch TV, chat, eat, help him get dressed, and so on), safe from the bustle of the world outside, what mattered was the relationship.

A number of you must be wondering, How did you communicate with him? His wordless sentences had their own melody, their own intonation: questions, amazement, outrage, sorrow. His gestures spoke, let us know what direction to follow. Yes or no, he expressed by nodding or shaking his head. When I was worried about one of my children, he reassured me with a motion of his big hands that meant “Don't get upset, don't worry, time will sort everything out!”

When he wanted to talk about certain matters systematically, he would show three fingers and list them: “One, two three.” And we would ask, Is this what you want to talk about? Then we’d word it differently: is that what he was trying to say? It wasn't always easy, for him or for us. It sometimes took more than a day to understand each other. We would shelve the question temporarily, but we knew there would be other opportunities, because he didn't let go. We would either try again or suddenly, by chance, we would bring up the subject he had in mind. What relief we read on his face!

What more can I say? Of those seven years spent with him - that affectionate, teasing man who was also something of a comic, sometimes sad and frustrated - we have the memory of a man who was terribly alive and who was there, present, for all of us. A very great person.