"My Dad's Recent Passing"

The Last Days

I’m sitting here now after a roast beef lunch kindly supplied the hospital;They have been absolutely amazing - full of kindness and quiet compassion. It’s Sunday, just over a week since my dad was admitted.

Last night, we thought we were losing him. After a buildup of secretions and a slowing breath, he went quiet. A few desperate moans, then silence. We gathered close, said our goodbyes. We shared memories, thanked him, kissed him. I cried, and we waited in the stillness of the night, around midnight.

It felt like the moment. He seemed ready.

But somehow, from somewhere, he rallied. His breathing found a rhythm again.

And I’ll admit,  in a strange way, I was disappointed for him. It had felt like a peaceful release after months of pain. But still, we were grateful. Cosy, even. Another night camped around his bed in a private room, courtesy of the NHS. We actually slept surprisingly well.

Earlier that day, I’d done something I’d promised myself I would: a little DJ send-off. My dad was massively into music and the reason I am too. I’d made a playlist for the drive from the airport to prepare myself emotionally. I cried then.

Yesterday, I played those songs to him. A Bluetooth speaker by his head. I hoped he could hear them. As the music played, I looked at him and remembered things. It was hard - deeply painful - but it also felt spiritual.

Since I arrived on Wednesday, he hadn’t opened his eyes or moved a hand. No drips, no nourishment,  just his body using its final reserves. Even so, it kept going. It's amazing how the body shuts down, step by step, as if programmed to use up every last bit of life.

We like to think he was somewhere else - dreamlike, deep, unaware, but still near. We hoped he heard us. Most importantly, we knew he wasn’t suffering.

Then came this morning.

It was 12:44. I awoke to the sound of voices. The gurgling had stopped. Just slow breaths now. It was still night. Seagulls outside. That soft green spotlight above his bed. My mum was at his side, holding his hand.

There had been a definite change once the gurgling ceased. He looked more comfortable. Peaceful. His breaths came slower, with longer pauses. We gathered around and watched each one. More than once, he stopped breathing completely. Only when I reached for a pulse did he seem to return. The same happened when my mum pressed her hand to his chest - as if he was torn between staying and going.

Then came the last time. Two small flinches - what I believe was his heart finally giving out. A slight movement in his neck, then nothing. Moments later, his skin changed colour. He had left us for good.

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s also revealed something true about life. Its mystery, its grace, and its finality.

I’m not religious. But I don’t believe energy just disappears. Maybe it moves on. Maybe it carries something of us with it - a memory, a light, a love.

I would like to say a big thanks to everyone at the Lowen Ward ,Trileske Truro. The Palliative nurses ( especially Todd ) the nurses, student nurses and the lovely people who kept bringing us tea, coffee, biscuits and meals. The side room we had was amazing with a lovely outside terrace and wet room. It was really special.

As hard as it was, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. 

Rest in peace Dad X