If I’d ever imagined the passing of my beloved dad, it would never have been like this. He deserved better.
It wasn’t so much set against a backdrop of a pandemic, it was saturated in it. A new surreality. Face coverings and obsessive hand cleansing. Human behaviour restricted and modified to become un-humanlike. A separation from others. Severance of social bonds. Closeness outlawed.
It was oppressive.
A psychological weight. Not just fear.
It was suspicion too.
An invisible enemy. Other humans a threat. There must be separation. Isolation.
And so, when the ambulance was called for my father on the Friday 11 December no one could go with him. COVID RULES.
Heart breaking that he must go alone. And with the hospital rules NO VISITORS ALLOWED. Heart breaking that he would be alone.
It felt as though our fight to keep him safe had been taken away. It was cruel defeat.
Prior to that day, we had battled hard for dad’s recovery for 40 days and nights. He’d been through hell in hospital already in October; blood transfusions, heart failure, fluid on the lungs, a 4 hour operation to reconstruct his knee. He thought he would never escape. He felt death had been close. He told me as much.
So it was with great happiness when I wheeled him out of hospital in early November and returned him home. It was a real rescue mission – we had bought him back. Back home, where he belonged. Where he longed to be.
Even though there was a long road to recovery ahead, it was glorious to have him home. There was struggle. He could not get around easily without a lot of support. But he was determined. As always.
We would bring him mugs of hot Ovaltine’s; ‘Oh, that’s lovely’ he would say in his soft Irish tones. We knew well what he thought of hospital food and drink. It was missing the love and care of home. He loved his return to mum’s cooking. Hot porridge to build his strength, scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, casseroles. Food lovingly made. Dad felt his energy and strength returning. There were struggles, setbacks and suffering. But he fought on. He wanted to walk again, be in the garden again. Be independent.
He had family around him. There was closeness.
I guess that is what made the last three weeks insufferable for all. He was not home. His family was not around.
We phoned in for reports. He was a world away.
The Sunday night after he was taken, the call came; the call to say he might not last the night. (To see him was only permitted on these compassionate grounds). So we raced in to be with him. The protocol was one visitor in the room, limited time, and kitted with masks, gloves and aprons.
The doctors had been gravely concerned. When I saw dad that night, I could see he had more. He told me so “I’m a tough ol’ bird”. The toughest in my book.
He survived that night.
He’d survived so many nights, it almost seemed impossible that one of these nights he wouldn’t make it. He improved a bit the following day and said to mum ‘I’ll be home by the weekend’.
What followed was terrible deterioration by the weekend.
Dad was in a semi-conscious state, unable to communicate. His kidney was failing. His doctor, Prof Harper phoned to discuss.
Brother flew down from Scotland. There was an intense level of worry and concern. His kidney function had dropped so low – we hoped and prayed for it to recover. The Renal Unit did everything they could. They wanted to try Dialysis, but had discovered a leaking heart valve and with dad’s weakened state, he might not survive the process. Dad was immeasurably tough though, probably too tough.
He could not swallow or speak for five days. When he finally could, he comprehended quickly that his donated kidney had failed.
‘It’s all gone wrong’
Fate had dealt the final cruel blow.
He knew it.
I knew it.
Brave was his everyday. I can’t imagine what he’d endured over the years, particularly the last few months, but he had reached the end.
So Christmas week, dad took his stand. He refused all further treatment. He saw no light ahead for him, only a precarious existence with dialysis and a heart condition. No more independence. Hope had gone. His body was a wreck, yet his mind was fixed on being home again. And that was the cruelest twist of all. We were all powerless to grant him his wish. He needed acute level care. We couldn’t bring him home.There was not going to be a rescue this time.
So the last week was an agony. Those compassionate grounds meant we could see him, but only in a controlled way.
He hated where he was. We hated where he was.
It felt beyond unfair, a punishing blow. I asked him to think about other times. But his wish for home superseded any other thought.
Pain medication and sedation made him more weary.
His wishes for home soon faded into an introspection; he felt that he had caused a misery. At least that was one thing we could fix. That we could set him straight on. We spoke of happy times and that he had bought so much. He conceded. He even managed the odd poem and rhyme, enjoyed hearing messages. He did seem peaceful at the end.
But he deserved better.
A couple of weeks after dad passed away, I read an article that talked about how we overemphasise our focus on the end of things. I guess that even includes by beloved dad’s life. It was an intense time at the end. I struggled to see beyond that intense time – I was so focused on how unfair, how cruel it all was. Eventually I processed this and looked further. Dad had been gifted so many extra years from his donated kidney. Even with the sadness, there was so much more to appreciate. So much to be thankful for.
N.B. Of course, I will never be thankful for the complexities and difficulties that an out of control virus caused (and continues to cause).