Lost

In April last year I wrote about losing my blue swimsuit and how my friend blamed that loss for everything bad that was happening in the world, from her thyroid becoming under active to the Covid pandemic!

I bought a new, identical blue swimsuit and was delighted to be able to buy a smaller size, but it always puzzled us what had become of the original one.

A couple of days ago I was looking for tights. I needed them because I was preparing to wear a dress……something I haven’t done for a long time. 

I wish I could write that I was putting on a dress for a wedding or a christening or another happy event. Unfortunately I wasn’t. I was putting on a dress for a funeral. Not just any funeral. My dad’s funeral. My wonderful, handsome, witty dad. I can’t quite believe we’ve lost him. He had Parkinson’s Disease and Lewy body dementia so had been slowly deteriorating for years, but the end came very quickly. It seems like one moment he was here and the next he was gone. We miss him. 

When I was looking for those tights to wear to my dad’s funeral service, I found my lost blue swimsuit. It was caught down the back of a drawer in the base of our son’s divan bed. The bed used to be ours and I stored my sea swim gear in that drawer before we moved it into our son’s room.

I hope that my friend’s theory was right and that by finding that swimsuit I will be able to reverse all the bad things that have happened in the last 18 months. Maybe her thyroid will rectify itself.  Maybe there will even be a cure for Covid. 

Unfortunately, the one thing I want most, can’t happen. My dad can’t come back. My husband’s father-in-law cannot come back. Our son’s granddad can’t come back. Our lives are irrevocably changed. No amount of superstition or lucky clothes can change the loss we are feeling. 

As I swim in the sea tomorrow morning, I will think of my dad. I will remember him sitting in the cafe with my hubby; the two of them watching us in the water and discussing what a ridiculous pastime dad thought it was. I will let the waves wash away my tears and imagine my twinkly eyed dad, laughing at the sight of me in the water.

“No-one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.” (Terry Pratchett)

Good times, bad times

October has been a big month. It started off with our third fundraiser for Macmillan. It had been postponed from last year so it was great to be able to finally go ahead. Despite restricted numbers, we brought in another £4,400 so I’m delighted with that. 

Unfortunately, the day before the event, my dad was admitted to hospital. My sister had come over from England and was happy to sit with him to allow me to attend our fundraiser. I felt bad, but dad seemed much more settled than the previous day and I knew people were depending on us.

The next week was mostly spent sitting with dad, watching helplessly as he deteriorated at an alarmingly rapid pace.  The Consultant explained that a full recovery was highly unlikely. In the first few days it was hoped he would recover enough to be released from hospital, but it would’ve been into full nursing care in a residential home. 

As time went on it became apparent that our dad, who we loved so much, was not going to survive. On his eleventh day in hospital, my sister and I sat by his bedside all day. He didn’t open his eyes once and it was clear to both of us that he would be leaving us soon. We sat until the evening but agreed to leave at 6pm. We both knew we’d need our energy for the days ahead.

Our dad passed away that night.

Ironically, he was cared for by the same Consultant and many of the same nurses, in the same ward where I was cared for during my hospitalisations four and a half, and three and a half years ago. We even had comfort, help and advice from the Macmillan palliative care team that I had been fundraising for just the week before.  It gave me comfort to know he was with good people and getting the best care he could possibly have. We wouldn’t have wanted dad to survive only to lie in a bed the rest of his days, unable to communicate properly and unable to care for himself. His passing brought him peace.

This, of course, is somewhat cold comfort. Dad is gone. The day after tomorrow we will have a funeral service for him and the day after that he will be cremated, as were his wishes.

I still can’t quite believe it. The time since his passing has been filled with funeral plans and getting his affairs in order. Hubby and I have spent time with dad’s partner and friends. It has gone by in a flash. We haven’t had much time to reflect. 

Now that we’ve done as much as we can, hubby and I are planning to take tomorrow as a day for ourselves. Yet again I am struck by how lucky I am to have my strong and supportive man by my side. He is grieving too, but his primary concern is making sure I am ok. 

There’s not much more to be said really. Tempus fugit. Time flies. Keep your loved ones close because you never know how long you’ll have with them. Dad lived a good life but, at 77 years old, it has still ended too soon.  We miss him.