My Dads name was Greg, short for Gregory, but perhaps it should have been short for Gregarious, because that's what he was. I was his youngest daughter, my sister is two years older than me. I don't think either of us were ready for this.
Twenty days ago, in the very early hours of 4th July 2015 my beautiful Dad died following a diagnosis a year and two days previously of renal cancer. As a therapist I feel I should know how to deal with this, but theory and reality don't always match up. Writing has kind of helped, well I think that's why I've been doing it.
He didn't expect to die so quickly and I would say even a few weeks before he died he was still optimistic that he would continue with a decent quality of life for some time to come. He was still planning adventures for us, but it wasn't to be. Dad's health deteriorated rapidly in a matter of just a few weeks. The deterioration in his final week was colossal; just eight days before he died he was pottering around his garden and then he was gone! He was 62, days short of turning 63.
If you can died a good death I think Dad almost managed it. Two things marred it; the first being that he wasn't in his 90's, the second, that despite the health professionals best efforts he still experienced some pain. My Dad loved thunderstorms, I have many memories of watching huge storms with him as they rolled over the fenlands when I was a little girl. In the week leading up to his death storms had been threatened all week and I had been promising Dad they were coming.
We didn't know he was going to go on that particular night but I had a strong feeling. The health professionals didn't know either as it was the one night they decided they couldn't send a Marie Curie nurse home to us. Did you know they are in such short supply? As it goes I think it was better for us that there wasn't a nurse and I know my family agree. We moved his hospital bed from the dining room into the living space between the two sofas so he was snug with us quite literally all around him. I played my Dad's guitar and my sister and I sang many of the songs we had sung along to with Dad and his guitar since we were tiny and for that time his breathing seemed to calm. He was just about still using his mouth and eyebrows to communicate that he could hear us.
The doctor came when he was in more pain, she was so kind she sorted his pain but his breathing was still deteriorating. When she left the lightning started and it was phenomenal! We snuggled up on the sofas and chairs around Dad, in the dark with the patio door curtains open and we oohed and ahhhed through the storm. Even my big sister watched it and she is usually the scaredy-cat. The storm calmed and my amazing big strong Dad left this world forever.
Writing the word 'forever' is very different to believing 'forever' and at the moment this is not something that I can comprehend. He was big, he was strong, he was gregarious he knew everybody, everybody knew him. He was dependable and many people turned to him because of his rock like fortitude, especially me. Because of his solidity, it is too hard to contemplate that he can melt away like he did and forever. Really?
