Waiting for Grief

I turned around, and saw him on the floor. The next hours happened in moments.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the kind my Dad liked. He was a working-class man that grew up in the 60's in Portobello road. He liked cars; he was a mechanical and electrical engineer. He worked on the Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning team within the underground railways. The office was his dream. I never understood his dream, until he left us.

At first, I thought he was working on his car; on the ground, looking up at something - there is no car in the garden; was he looking at the bush- I saw him breathe. I knew it was terrible, though I couldn't recall the term. It is how you respire when you are on the precipice of death. I screamed for Mum to call an ambulance; I ran to him. I had to perform CPR, and I didn't know how.

Reader; Learn CPR and First Aid

For anyone reading this who doesn't know CPR, you should take a course. There are affordable options, even free options, available. The knowledge is priceless. You do not know desperation until you are trying to resuscitate a loved one. I pray you never need to perform CPR; but the moment you need it, you will regret not knowing. If you want something on your CV, there are Emergency First Aid at Work courses available. These too will teach you CPR. If you won't do these, look it up on YouTube. I beseech you reader, take a CPR course. I did not know desperation until those awful moments. CPR could save someone you love.

Unfortunately, we learned there was little we could do for Dad. Unbeknownst to all, he had undiagnosed medical conditions. They were the kind of conditions that kill you, and significantly impair, if not entirely prevent, resuscitation. It was a beautiful sunny day when my Father died, and we cannot know, but we think, he experienced a little pain; then simply went to sleep.

It may sound cruel; but it was a good death. I have known people die before; slowly, painfully, filled with morphine, addled and confused. A moment of pain, on a glorious day beneath a clear blue sky, belly full of food he liked; and at peace with himself for the first time in 60 years, with Mum and me close by. We will always want longer. We will always miss him. It feels like he's here now, in some way. This home is his place. To me it his grave; not in a terrible way. This is simply where he is now. It's where he left.

He worked so that Mum and I could live good lives. I didn't realise that. I missed him during childhood. I didn't understand why he was tired. He worked himself to exhaustion for 4 decades, so that Mum and I could live well. I'm sure he did it for himself too, to some extent he wanted a nice house, to climb the career ladder and prove his worth; but I realise now a huge part of it, was his love for me and Mum. His love was sacrificing himself to give to those he loved.

He didn't like hugs, or saying "I love you" - but I had told him just the day before. I'd watched him drive off into town to do some shopping. I told him "I love you; take care". I always do when someone leaves; saying goodbye is very important to me. He responded a little sardonically, overly-serious as if to make fun "and I love you, too". That was the day before he died. His little hand waved from the car, as he turned out of the driveway, wearing his little grey hat and his glasses. I can see the back of his head, and the side of his face, as he grins "What does she possibly think will happen to me, the silly girl; I'm barely driving a mile away!". Well, I'm glad I remember him like that. It hurt to see him leave this place in a funeral van. He was leaving his home, his place, where he had finally found peace for the first time in 60 years; but this time he wasn't leaving under his own power, of his own volition, of his will. It was the first time in a long, long time, he'd been going away in a car; and he wasn't himself at the wheel. He liked cars. He liked driving. I burst into tears when I saw his coffin in the hearse for the same reason. He liked driving. It wasn't right that he was in a car, but not driving it. He had a classic car; we joked about burying him in it. Maybe he would've liked that; maybe he would've thought it's a waste of a something he loved; better to pass it on and share that joy with another.

We sat with his body for an hour after he was declared. Mum and I said what we needed to say. We spoke at the funeral, to celebrate him and do honour to his memory. I feel I've said what I needed to say. I just want more. Don't we all?

My dad liked sharing his joy with others. If something made him happy, he'd share some with you - because then you would be happy too! That part of him, was a simple, pure love, for which I will always remember him. Love is all we've got.

I love you Dad. Always will.