26 December 2020

I wake at 00:30. As I enter your room, I can hear your regular noisy breathing punctuated by the oxygen machine. I sit with you quietly. I tell you the feeling I had as I woke, that your ancestors are gathering around the house. The room is softly lit with the fairy lights in the rosemary plant K brought and the LED diffuser, which is blowing out sweet, calming oils. When I leave, I kiss your forehead and say, “Sleep tight, baby boy.”

I stop and frown, feeling strange. I wonder why I’m talking to you as a child. It’s something I’ve said a hundred times to my child. It’s the years of parenting, perhaps. Or maybe your mother speaking through me. You loved your mother so.

At 05:30, I’m awake again. I come straight in, and you are quiet. I put my gloved hand on your still chest. There is no bump bump, although your chest is warm, as is your left hand. Your face, feet, and right hand are cooler. There is a tremendous sense of peace in the room. I sit down on Mum’s chair. My eyes play tricks on me as the duvet seems to rise and fall with your breath.

I am the mythical ferryman. I rowed you across the river, my darling. We travelled together as far as one person can with another. I stopped to catch a breath and you stepped out, leaving me behind, leaving us all.

I make calls. To the care hub, to S and then K and then D. None are easy. My voice is calm. Their loss rises from the phone to resonate with mine. I call Ant. He cries and speaks of the death of his father. His voice is strong.

I fill the wash bowl with warm water and geranium oil. I bathe you, change you and moisturise your skin. The core of your body is warm. Your outer limbs are cooling. I dress you back in your burgundy pyjamas carefully buttoning the jacket. I shave you and brush your hair. I spray you with aftershave.

You look serene. There is not a wrinkle on your face. Your eyes are very slightly open, as if you are just falling asleep or just waking. You look beautiful.

When S, Rich and Saz arrive and see you through the window even in the midst of grief they are amazed. S says you look like a king lying in state. Oils are gently diffusing. The lighting is soft and now daylight builds.

I video phone K so she can see you and then D and L. As the hours pass and the blood drains from your face, you become more dignified and peaceful. What a thing, Dad. Is this the beauty of spirit? I grip your shoulder, and you feel strong under my touch.

A doctor breezes in to verify your passing and rushes off again. S returns with Liz. They view you through the window, and Liz is glad that she came. I call the undertakers. I light a candle and sit beside you for the last time, listening to bird song outside your window. The wind is growing stronger.

Two men arrive in a private ambulance. One speaks to me in a quiet voice to check my name and yours. In your room, he asks if I’ve had enough time, and I say, “Yes. Although there is never enough time when you really love someone.”

Without speaking, the second man pulls out a white bag and puts it over your head.

Over your head, Dad. Right over your head.

They lift you into a black body bag, zip it up completely, and leave without another word.

I am stunned. I know your body is the vessel of your spirit now, but the callousness of your departure shocks me. I shut the door. I lock the door, and then I keen. The primal sound rings in a thick silence.

I’m in shock. Nothing that has come before prepared me for this. My grief is absolute.

I continue to stay in your house because of covid/isolation. These are the first difficult days without you. I wish we’d never known covid. You would still be here. We would have had longer, but I don’t feel regret. I’m not thinking you could have done this or wishing that you’d done that. You had a long and happy life with little pain. Maybe the blessings you had are what made you such a blessing to us all.