JOURNALING (written 2007): I can't escape it. This day comes around every year and it is a constant reminder to me of what I have lost; of things that should different and of just how much I miss having you here.
Today is the anniversary of your death, Pa.
It is a day that, for so long, my mind protected me from. For a long time, I could hardly remember anything about the days leading up to your death, nor could I remember any of the details of those hours early on the morning of Monday, March 15, 1993. But as the years pass, memories come flooding back. And now it is time for me to face those memories and my feelings about that day.
I guess I knew that your death was close when Mum and I tried to get you to leave your hospital bed for a few hours on the Sunday morning and go for a drive. You had enjoyed your Sunday outings every Sunday since you went into Palliative Care late in January. Nothing too strenuous; just a short drive to look at your business, and go down to the house so you could look out over the river. You point blank refused and spent the day sleeping on and off.
Late that afternoon, Sister Marie, the Palliative Care nun asked if she could speak to me alone. She told me that the nurses and herself had been watching our family over the past few weeks and she felt that I was "the one". The person who, when the time was right, would be the one who had to give you permission to die. I was shocked. Having been "the one" my whole life, who had run from that kind emotional pain, I assured her that I wouldn't be that person. She gently touched my arm and reassured me that I indeed did have the strength to do the unthinkable in my mind.
I went home for a few hours that night, to spend some time with Matt and Jake, and to allow Mark to go to the hospital to see you. I know that you enjoyed his visits, you two always got on so well, and Mark loved and respected and admired you so much as a man. But when he came home that night, after his visit, he told me that he didn't think that he would see you again. When I pressed him to explain what he meant, he told me that he didn't think you would live much longer. It was a shock to hear, what I feared the most, being verbalised by Mark. I remember wishing that, more than anything, I didn't have to go back to the hospital that night. A call from one of the nurses about 9.00 p.m. asking me to come back, soon changed that wish.
Dr Stewart was there when I arrived, along with Lindy, Rod, Jo and Mum. Dr Stewart examined you and asked to speak to us all in the "quiet room". He said that all your organs were starting to shut down, but if he started massive doses of vitamins and more blood transfusions, that you might live another month if we were lucky. And telling us that if we did nothing, you had probably only another 24 hours to live. I remember all of us turning to look at Mum, knowing full well, we all wanted to scream, "do anything you can to keep him alive", but knowing that you would not want us to that. It was time to allow you to die with the same dignity that you had lived your whole life. I gently put my hand on Mum's shoulder and whispered, "let him go Mum". With tears streaming down our faces, Mum nodded and we all quietly walked back to your room.
What surprised me the most that night was how lucid you were after we had made the decision to let you go. After we went back to your room, the nurses had propped you up on your pillows. Mum combed your hair and for the first time I noticed the "distinguished grey" that had seemed to spring from your temples overnight. Sister Marie was there, ever present in the background and at her suggestion we all had some time alone with you. While the others waited in the "quiet room", we all took had time with you, to say the things that needed to be said.
For so long, what I said to you in that short time was never clear in my memory. But with the passing of years I can remember snippets of my conversation. You told me how proud you had always been of me, even though I had been such a painful teenager. You told me that you respected the relationship I had with my own Dad and to never lose that. You told me of the love you had for my sons and how blessed I should feel that I had married such a wonderful man as Mark who gave me such a beautiful family. I promised you that no matter what, I would always do my very best to look after Mum, to protect her and love her. I guess that it is this promise to you that I couldn't keep, that has haunted me and hurt so much as the years have passed.
When we were all back in the room, the mood changed dramatically. A sense of urgency hung in the air. Like there were still many things to say and that time was running out.
The nurses who came in about midnight to turn you told me that it would only be a matter of hours before you passed away. How could they know that…??? Now I know that they had seen people die so many times that it became obvious when the time was close.
I went and called Mark and told him what Sister Marie had said to me earlier that day about letting you go. Mark told me that he had faith in me that I would find the strength. He told me that this was no longer about what I wanted, but about what I had to do for you. With my heart breaking inside me, I knew he was right.
When I went back to your room, your breath had become quite laboured. The nurses called it "death apnoea", when the breathing of a patient indicates that they are close to death. About 1.30 a.m., while we all sitting around your bed, I felt Mum stiffen beside me and she whispered, "he has stopped breathing". Rod ran and got a nurse but by the time she came back, you had taken another breath.
For the next few hours we hung on every breath, each of us willing you to take another and another and another. You mumbled incoherently, no words were clear enough to understand and every so often you opened your eyes and stared at Mum quite intensely and mumbled again. It was awful to watch and hear Mum ask you to repeat yourself. You seemed so determined to say something to her but we never understood what it was.
At one point you raised your hand and pointed to the empty space at the end of your bed. You had been doing this a lot in the weeks prior, and every time we asked you what you were pointing at, you asked us if we had seen "them" too the ladies dressed in white. Part of me believes it was the angels come to look over you and help you on the next part of your journey. I really don't have any other explanation for what you saw.
About 4.15 a.m. I knew that you were close to death. Sister Marie had come into the room again and she gently touched my hand and told me that it was almost time. We helped Mum get up onto the bed with you and she lay with her head on your chest, willing each breath and heartbeat from you. Lindy, Rod and Jo were on the opposite side of the bed and I sat next to Mum. If there was nothing left in this world we could do for you, we would surround you with love as you left us.
The time between each breath became longer and longer. For what seemed like the longest time, the only sound in the room was your breathing and our sighs of relief as you took another one. And then I heard Mum softly crying, saying over and over again, "I love you darling. Please don't leave me".
I remember looking across the bed and seeing Rod with his arms around Lindy and Jo. Everyone was in tears. Sister Marie quietly left the room, nodding to me as she went. Mum was inconsolable as she willed you to keep breathing and then it happened. I knew that it was time to do the unthinkable. It was time to let you go.
With a strength I never knew I had, I gently stroked your head and leaned down next to your ear and whispered, "It's time to go Pa. We are all going to be ok. We love you". With one last breath that sounded more like a quiet roar than a breath, your body shuddered and then in that moment and in my heart I knew that you had gone. I gently touched Mum's face and made her look at me and said "Mum, he is gone. I am so sorry".
What happened next is still a blur of nurses coming in and Sister Marie and Dr Stewart and making phone calls to let everyone know you had gone. What I do remember so very clearly though, is the profound sense of loss and grief that I felt. Like things might never be the same again. And I guess once you lose someone from your life that has been such a big part of it, that some things really never are the same again.
Your funeral is a blur to me too and maybe that is for the best. So many people tell me that it was a lovely service a real celebration of you and the wonderful, successful life that you lead. But for now my memories are still locked away of those sad, sad days.
For the longest time after your death, no part of my life made sense. I questioned my marriage to Mark why love someone with all your heart if they are just going to break it when they die…??? Why did I bring my sons into the world only to have them have to grieve for me later in life. It took many years for me to realise that death is just another part of life. And for me to see the many blessings that you gave me by being in my life and by my being with you in the last moments of your life.
So as March 15 rolls around every year I will be sad. It's hard for me not to be because, even now, 14 years later, I still miss having you in my life. But I will also celebrate this day I will celebrate the wonderful man that you were; I will cherish the love you gave me and Mark and my sons; I will keep your memory alive by talking about you to Matt, Jake and Kaitlyn, even though you never got to meet our beautiful girl. And I will be forever thankful that I got to have you in my life for the years that I did.
I love you Pa.
I miss you every single day.
Rest in Peace.
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