My lovely Dad took his last breath at 7.30 yesterday morning after a battle with prostate cancer that had spread to his bones. He was 79 years old and he has lived a brilliant, full and happy life. He was the lovliest, most caring and funniest man I have had the honour of knowing and he was also super intelligent and I would always, always look to him for answers about anything and everything.
I was with him day and night for the last five days of his life. He died in hospital as he was too weak to be moved back home or to a hospice. The staff were brilliant and allowed my brother and I to be with him as much as we liked and we slept on the floor either side of his bed. I think we got about 10 hours sleep total over those five days but it was worth it. We were able to constantly reassure him we were there and that we loved him and that we would be fine. He was pretty out of it and had lost concept of time and space but he knew who were were and would say 'Hallo' and smile and that he loved us too. Every time we woke we would reiterate who we were, that we were there and that we loved him and would look after him.
One night, about four nights ago, he woke about 2am and had a really lucid conversation. He asked where he was and we told him the hospital. He said 'Am I dying? and we replied 'Not right now'. He said, 'No, no, no, I mean, am I dying, is it the time, is that why I'm here? You must tell me...nod your head if this is the time' I nodded my head. He said 'Ahh! Ok! Well it's not too bad is it? Nothing to it. There's no pain and here I am with my family. And I don't want any of that nonsense after. None of that crying, ok?'. It was so lovely of him and I'm so, so grateful we were there, in that quiet of the night, to have that conversation. After that we witnessed him get less and less responsive, but we constantly talked to him, held his hand, reassured him were were there and that we were looking after him and each other. Even up to 12 hours before he died he was still murmuring response or raising his eyebrows.
The final few hours I would rather forget. There was no more response from 'Dad'. Just his body physically working to stay alive. He no longer saw us, no longer moved, twitched or mumured. He developed the 'death rattle' in the final 12 hours which disturbed me to my core. Still we stayed in the room, and endured the sound, trying our best to get rest on the floor of his room. Yesterday morning I woke, and could still hear his gurgly breathing. I stood up to check him and it just stopped, there and then. Almost as if he'd waited until we got up. So nice. We spent a further hour with him before leaving. He was still warm when I finally kissed him goodbye.
I'm feeling relieved he is no longer in the constant agonising pain he's endured this year, and I'm so, so glad I was with him this last week. And obviously I'm also very, very sad and teary but I really don't think it has hit me yet. I'm currently wrapped up in organising the aftermath - all the practicalities - and that's keeping me occupied. My work have been brilliant and have letting me take all the time I need (even though it's a nightmare for them to cover my absence).
My brother described the grief as a tap that turns on every now and then. We'll be laughing and telling stories and then it just hits you again. It's just very surreal at the moment.
I'm not sure how active this forum is anymore but it's been cathartic to write all this down. And if you are there, I'm sure I'll be leaning on you all over the next few months.
Stay strong girls xxx