The long goodbye

It’s been a whirlwind weekend. I got here yesterday afternoon. More or less straight to Dad’s hospice. He is comfortable. He is on morphine. He cannot hear my sister and me. He cannot see us – his eyes open occasionally but do not focus on anything.

The nurses tell us he showed some reactions – they put some football on TV. He seemed more alert. When they washed him, he stroked the nurse’s face.

But by the time we go there, he was away. Occasionally, his eyes would open, and he would start to convulse for a minute or so. But no more meaningful interaction than that.

We played some of his favourite music. We talked to him. We told him we were there. We told him we loved him. We said that if he wanted to leave, no one would hold it against him.

That was yesterday. Today, everything had changed. He was no longer with us at all. Sleep. Death rattle.

And yet, it has been a privilege. We played a lot more of his favourite music: Frank Sinatra, Ella, Neil Young. Even Phil Collins made it onto the playlist. Then an old family friend turned up with his guitar. We both played throughout the afternoon. Although he is away, we have honoured the beautiful man. We laughed. We cried.

Now we are back at my sister’s. We do not know if he will be alive tomorrow. We are exhausted. We are miserable. We are happy. We are lucky. We love him. We know he loved us. We are lonely. We are together. We are drunk.

It sucks. And yet it's beautiful. We’re lucky to be able to say goodbye.