Dads death

I always wondered how I would deal with my fathers death. Would I be able to be strong for mum or would I be a blubbering mess? Would I burst into tears at the slightest memory of him or could I cope with seeing his slippers still under his bed? I wondered the same about mum, and my brothers over in Canada. How would we feel?

We all knew that his days were numbered and even thought he was going to die a few years ago, when he had a spell in hospital so we've had time to say all the personal things that we wanted to say several times over. My brothers were over at Christmas specifically because they thought it would be his last, and I was down just a couple of weeks before his death.

My last words to him on that visit were, "I love you Dad," I stroked his face and smiled at him, and he gave his best shot at a smile back and his body shook with emotion that he couldn't express any other way.

For me, that was the perfect way to say good-bye to my father.

When Mum phoned the news through, she was calm and pragmatic. She said that she had been reading to him late at night, when his breathing slowed more than usual. She continued to read, though aware of every breath he took. Eventually he just stopped breathing. She carried on reading out loud, of the adventures of a couple crossing the Sahara on camel back.

She had nearly finished the book, and.apparently hearing is the last sense to fade so she continued for a while. Then she went to bed. She was up again at five, but didn't want to disturb anyone at that hour, so she carried on reading the last chapter of the book to him and eventually rang me when she knew I would be up.

He died just as she, (and Dad), had planned and hoped for, at home, with her at his bedside, and even better, whilst she was reading to him.

A perfect way to go. No fuss nor struggle for another breath.

My Dad didn't want any fuss over a funeral but Mum decided on a Woodland burial after reading about them in Saga magazine. She liked the idea of him buried in a Somerset willow casket with a tree of her choice planted next to him, and didn’t want any kind of religious ceremony.

The day was lovely. A few close friends and family in a grove of various young trees, on a rolling hill with warm-but-not-too-hot weather, out in the countryside, within site of the sea and with a serene and peaceful aura.

We all spoke of my Dad, and even had a few laughs at some of the memories, such as his love of Cornflakes and his enjoyment of sunbathing. Mum read out some poems, a Louis Macneice, one by Emily Bronte, and a fun Joyce Grenfell poem.

Just perfect.

I do not mourn the death of my Dad with a sad heart. My love for him will never change. I am proud that he was my father and so fortunate that in living his dream with Mum he provided a life for us that for most, will always remain just that, a dream.