I woke up on Valentine’s Day this year to the sad news of the passing of the father of my close friend. My reaction was to ring him as we were in different cities, but it was hard, not being there for him, and the phone call felt like a token gesture. A phone call in these circumstances can’t offer any kind of closure. It simply acknowledges your love, concern and sadness.
This Valentine’s Day also marked the 10 year anniversary of my own father’s death. Dad died of bowel cancer in 2004. The operation to remove the original tumour hadn’t been as successful as we’d assumed; a microscopic piece had managed to live on in his liver undetected, where it grew to the size of a tennis ball. It would have been miraculous if he had survived.
When Mum and Dad told me that Dad would most likely not last the year, I didn’t react. You think you’ll instantly react to the news of the passing of someone close to you, but death is rarely instant, and the emotional fallout is the same. It’s a journey that everyone experiences gradually, in different ways.
Photo: Pinky Fang
One of the first things I started to do was draw. Dad made the quiet observation that I tend to deal with my emotions on the page.
It took me a while to cry. When I did, weeks later, it was in the shower, where I could wash my face, and the sound was masked by the sound of running water and the extractor fan.
Dad told me that when his own father died of cancer he didn’t cry, and felt guilty about it, and wished that he did. It took him years to realise that the fact he didn’t cry didn’t mean he wasn’t sad. I told him that I had cried, but that I didn’t want him to worry about me, that my concern was for him. I was here to support him, hopefully, to beat his cancer.
This was as frustrating for Dad, as he was losing the ability to function, to fend for himself when he became aggravated. He needed help from us, and we wanted to give it, but what he wanted was to not need our help; to be able to do mundane chores by himself.
His fervent desire to save Dad’s soul was in full display as he knelt on the floor...as my family sat at the table, quietly eating our dinner, wondering if he would leave before Friends came on.
The many offers of help that came my family’s way during this period gave us both a sense of overwhelming positivity and a sense that we were about to lose something.
Not all were welcome, however. Dad showed me a letter from a family friend from Banks Peninsula, in which she bled her heart out over a multitude of pages, trying to convince him to accept “The Lord”, or spend eternity in the roaring fires of Hell.
It was almost entertaining in its absurdity, but it pissed me off and it still does. Coming to terms with death is a personal process, and trying to make your beliefs someone else’s problem is selfish and hurtful.
Dad dealt with it with tact, replied to her with empathy and understanding, tried to make her see his point of view. It served as a practice for the escalating attempts by a few to convert Dad to their particular brand of Lord.
One night, as Mum was dishing up dinner, an associate of Dad’s showed up to convince him to convert. His fervent desire to save Dad’s soul was in full display as he knelt on the floor, tears welling up in his eyes, pleading with Dad to turn away from an afterlife of suffering as my family sat at the table, quietly eating our dinner, wondering if he would leave before Friends came on.
Though Dad lived longer than he was told he would – which was a gift – I was never really prepared for it to happen. Even in the most hopeless of situations, you believe in the smallest of chances.
We were all sat around Dad’s bed in the lounge of our family home the night he died. The last time he held my hand he held it tighter than usual. He couldn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. He didn’t want to die. He was 48-years-old, and he had plans and dreams about his future. He was never going to see my sisters and I become adults.
Awaiting him was a forest of flowers representing people’s sympathy and support. We let them sit and die around Dad’s corpse, momentarily preserved.
He died late in the night. For how drawn-out the end was, for all the foreshadowing, his death was instant: it only took one breath for him to suddenly be dead. Before that breath his skin looked soft, his eyelids were heavy, his muscles, tense. After it, he wasn’t him. He was cold, still – just a body that used to be Dad.
He was dead.
Everyone stood in silence that was only broken by peaceful platitudes like “No more suffering” and other words to fill the empty space. After staring at his lifeless face for a few minutes I quietly went to my bedroom and lay down. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do.
His body was quickly embalmed, and came back to us to lie in the lounge. Awaiting him was a forest of flowers representing people’s sympathy and support. We let them sit and die around Dad’s corpse, momentarily preserved. I invited my friends to see Dad when they came to visit me, but they would rarely agree, and so I’d find myself sitting alone amongst the vases of wilting flowers, watching Dad. I could never connect the body with him.
The funeral was held at a non-denominational chapel. I’d been to two funerals there before. The first was my Great Uncle Charlie’s funeral, which I only distantly remembered. My Great Aunty Rosie sat in the foyer, receiving condolences. She responded with gratitude each time, but she looked at every person’s face with a distant gaze. This was a momentous occasion for her, but she hadn’t yet understood it.
There was an expectation of me to speak at Dad’s funeral, as I had a reputation for being good at public speaking, I won the speech competition at my primary school, and came third overall in regionals. At high school, I won the school cup twice.
But when Dad started to deteriorate so did some of my confidence. Things like being the best at speeches seemed inconsequential, and when it came the time to speak at Dad’s funeral I couldn’t. I wanted him to be there with me. I wasn’t ready to pay tribute to him because I hadn’t let him go.
I stood with my sisters as they took turns to read a poem and a eulogy they’d written. I took over when they cried to allow them to grieve. It was only after I’d left the crematorium that I myself cried. When there was no longer any part of him left, and when no one needed me to be strong, I cried.
We’re encouraged to live life with no regrets and to achieve our goals so that we can see out the end with peace of mind. This is a wonderful theory, but it’s not the reality I’ve experienced. You can be comfortable with your own mortality, but you don’t have to be willing to go. Death, like life, isn’t straightforward.
People were quick to label me “the man of the house”. Their intentions were pure, but my response was “F*&k that”, such a cliché belittled my family and the journey we’d been on together. I have two sisters who live life to the beat of their own drums, and a strong and courageous mother who has always supported the three of us. I was never going to allow myself to be “the man of the house” because our “house” never needed a “man”, we needed each other.
Some people alleviate this fear and burden by looking forward to an afterlife that may or may not exist. For me, all I can do is look after those around me in the present.
Whenever I answered the phone, too, I’d be told that I sounded like Dad on the other end of a receiver. To some, the familiarity was comforting, but it helped me to realise that no-one and nothing can ever replace another person. Part of my accepting Dad’s death has been to acknowledge the parts of him that have become part of my character. Part of him lives on in me, but that doesn’t mean I’m filling the gap he left behind, because that’s impossible.
I’ve had time to grieve over the past 10 years, but there will always be moments I really miss Dad. I hate bringing it up, or being coaxed into bringing it up, because the reaction is never helpful. It usually goes like this:
“What happened to your Dad?”
“He died of cancer when I was 16.”
[Sharp intake of breath, hand over the collarbone] “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The onus is then on me to reassure a person who has just learned that my father, a man they never met, died. That, yes, it was a sad time, but it was 10 years ago now and I’ve made it through the decade with the support of friends and family.
I appreciate that so many people are so empathetic, but I have (possibly irrational) issues with “I’m so sorry for your loss”. It seems to be at once selfish and selfless, expressing sympathy for the dead and the bereaved, as well as ourselves.
One of the many lessons I’ve learnt from Dad’s death was to not worry about my own demise, and to be OK with the fact that one day I’ll die. Looking at my family history, that could be in 72 years, 23 years, or tomorrow. Some people alleviate this fear and burden by looking forward to an afterlife that may or may not exist. For me, all I can do is look after those around me in the present.
On the phone to my friend on Valentine’s Day, all I can do is let him know I’m here when he needs me. All I can do is keep being his friend. His journey isn’t going to be straightforward, and I can never know, or presume to know, what he is going to experience or how. No one can, because loss is personal.
All I can do is let him know that life keeps moving forward and new experiences help you to grow and live better. You will move on but you won’t forget the memories you already have. I am deeply sorry for his loss, but that goes without saying. All I can do is be with him in this moment and listen.
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