“I’m on my way home baby. My dad died”
This is the text I sent my girlfriend upon leaving the hospital moments after watching my dad die. I realise these words are very blunt and unemotional, and unfortunately they typify me. You see I’m very introverted and I don’t know how to handle certain situations socially, I clam up and only let out the tiniest bit of information, and I use humour (often inappropriately) to hide my emotions behind. And so I prefer to deal with things internally and withdraw into my own little cocoon. But I do love the written word and the power that it has, and I find it easier to express myself. That’s why I’m writing this blog even if nobody reads it, to try and help sort out the thoughts in my head.
I have had to deal with a close death only once before, two days after my ninth birthday when my brother was blown up on the bandstand at Regents Park by the IRA. I didn’t deal with it particularly well then either. But, as with my dad, the feeling of loss is just the same, it’s the circumstance that changes the emotion: When my brother was unexpectedly killed by someone else’s hand the overwhelming emotion was anger, and that anger mostly had a focus, but of course it would spill out in random directions because of the complete powerlessness to do anything about it. The main emotion from my dad’s death is relief mixed with large doses of guilt.
My dad had Alzheimer’s, as well as diabetes and angina (good luck with the future Glenn), and the thing about a person with Alzheimer’s is you kind of lose them before they die, only bit by bit. At the very end of the last series of That Mitchell & Webb Look they did a very moving Sherlock Holmes and Watson sketch regarding Alzheimer's. At the time it bought a lump to my throat, and thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes, but it was a very thoughtful., brilliantly written sketch.
Over the past few years I’ve watched my dad slowly deteriorate into a frail shadow of a man I barely recognise, who apart from giving you the sweetest open mouthed grin when you managed to catch his attention, would just sit and stare oblivious to the world around him, or sleep.
There were guilty moments of amusement in the earlier stages when he was more interactive and he would talk about the rabbits on the racing track outside his window. Or on one occasion when I visited him and rugby was on TV, he suddenly announced out of the blue “I haven’t played rugby in months!”, I don't think he's ever played rugby in his life. But overall I hated going to see him like that, and as I write this with tears falling down my face the worse feeling is the one of guilt. Guilt for the relief, guilt for the amusement I got from his condition, guilt for not being able to do anything for him. But over all, immense guilt for thinking it would’ve been better if he’d just died while he was still “my dad”.
Over the past few years I’ve watched my dad slowly deteriorate into a frail shadow of a man I barely recognise, who apart from giving you the sweetest open mouthed grin when you managed to catch his attention, would just sit and stare oblivious to the world around him, or sleep.
There were guilty moments of amusement in the earlier stages when he was more interactive and he would talk about the rabbits on the racing track outside his window. Or on one occasion when I visited him and rugby was on TV, he suddenly announced out of the blue “I haven’t played rugby in months!”, I don't think he's ever played rugby in his life. But overall I hated going to see him like that, and as I write this with tears falling down my face the worse feeling is the one of guilt. Guilt for the relief, guilt for the amusement I got from his condition, guilt for not being able to do anything for him. But over all, immense guilt for thinking it would’ve been better if he’d just died while he was still “my dad”.
Thankfully I didn’t see my brother die, and I will always remember him as the man he was, the only man I ever knew him as. Last night I spent two hours watching my dad unresponsive and really struggling to breath, an oxygen mask over his face and intravenous drips in both arms. I held his hand and watched the colour drain out of his face, and a moment later, at pretty much 10:30pm, I watched him take his very Hollywood style last breath: he flexed his head back, opened his eyes, his mouth opened wide and he took a last gasp. It looked very much a face of death and whenever I close my eyes or think of my dad it fills my vision. I know this image of my dad will now stay with me forever, but I just want to remember my dad as the big strong provider that did whatever he could to raise his family.
All that said, I’m so very glad I got to be with him in his last hours, and he had his family around him, whether he was aware of it or not.
I don’t remember much between my dad’s last breath and sending the text to my girlfriend while desperately trying to hold back the tears on my dazed walk home. And that’s what it comes down to: I sent that text because I didn’t know what to do... And I still don’t.
I don’t remember much between my dad’s last breath and sending the text to my girlfriend while desperately trying to hold back the tears on my dazed walk home. And that’s what it comes down to: I sent that text because I didn’t know what to do... And I still don’t.
I love you dad. I miss you. And I’ll always remember you.
