My wonderful and much beloved father spent the past four and a half years battling with prostate and bone cancer. Although it was something I would normally have blogged about, as I have often used this blog as a stress reliever, I was unable to do so as we’d kept the true severity of his condition a secret so he wouldn’t lose heart and give up. As my father was an avid reader of my blog, always wanting to keep up with what I was doing, it was hard to express my feelings on his illness when he was likely to read it and therefore I moved into complete silence on the subject, but then found it hard, especially once his condition became critical, to write on more light-hearted matters.
As you know, I spent three months in Spain last summer, which was actually to help my mother with caring for my father in what we thought (and were told) were his final days. In fact we spent a week in hospital with him, during which we were all sure that it was only a matter of days if not hours before we lost him. However, being the fighter he always was, dad wasn’t ready to go then (despite dire warnings from every medical person to cross his path - the reason we were keeping it a secret and hence my three month ‘vacation’). As autumn drew on, he began to show an amazing recovery – the pain seemingly absent and with his steely determination he forced himself to get himself out of bed, an amazing feat as the muscles in his legs had almost withered away to nothing. Although not well by any means, he was at least able to enjoy some quality of life again – being able to watch the television, read his beloved books and use the computer, and over time had even managed to get himself walking again with the use of a frame.
Unfortunately, a couple of months ago, in his haste to move (impatience ever being one of his faults, as it is mine) he fell and this set him on a downward path. A detached retina in one eye added to a worsening cataract in the other meant he could no longer read, always his greatest pleasure in life and his worst loss, and a swift return of the pain, increasing to the stage where no painkillers could help (and he was high as a kite from the cocktail of drugs most of the time), meant that for the second time in a year we had to prepare ourselves for the worst. Once again I went to Spain, ready to help my mother, exhausted as she was from the constant round-the-clock care she had been providing since his fall – and of course, to say goodbye to my precious dad.
Heartbreakingly, my father passed away, peacefully and finally free from the pain he’d been in for so long, at nine am on a grey and rainy Thursday, on 24 March 2011.
I had been due to fly home the following day, as the coming weekend (containing Mrs H3’s birthday) was going to be the busiest of the year, with concerts by Chas & Dave and Elbow to go to, as well as an England football game at Wembley and a 1970s themed fancy dress party (an excuse for Mrs H3 to finally wear the roller skates I got for her previous birthday!) At that moment all those things ceased to exist for me and all I could think about was being there to support my mum through those first few tough days (although I will admit I was gutted not to be able to do those things so long planned - especially the Elbow concert, which I understand was brilliant).
The Spanish custom is for the funeral to take place as soon as possible after death, usually within twenty four to forty eight hours. However, mum and dad have a funeral plan (if you live abroad you really need to get one of these, seriously, as it really saves you money and a lot of hassle) which allows them to extend the mortuary time, and the people running the plan were incredibly efficient and extremely helpful. Mum, ever considerate of other people, even at such a distressing time wasn’t keen on the funeral happening on the Saturday, as friends of theirs were celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary at a party that evening, and there was the question of whether any of the family would be attending and so the funeral was arranged for Monday 28 March.
Mum and I, along with Sam, a good friend of my father’s went to view the body (also a Spanish custom as they only ever hold closed coffin funerals) on Sunday evening. This was a strange time for me as I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him, but felt I ought to, in support for my mother. I will admit I only lasted in the room for a few seconds. The body lying in the coffin wasn’t my dad. He was long gone and I couldn’t bear to see his body lying there, looking somehow artificial. There was also an awful smell, although I apparently was the only one who noticed that. Bizarrely, and I suppose it’s always at stressful times you get these odd types of thoughts, the first thing I noticed was that he seemed to be covered in glitter… sparkling you might say, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether my father had turned into a vampire (although I was careful enough to keep that part of the observation to myself).
Monday was a beautiful sunny day, in total contrast to the day of dad’s death and (possibly because of the old wives tale) it made me feel that he was happy now he was free from pain. As he was an ex-Serviceman, the Royal British Legion (of which he was a member) gave him a Service funeral which was held in a nice chapel in a lovely modern-looking Tantatorio in Orihuela. The coffin, draped in the RAF flag and bearing a poppy wreath and a tribute from my mother, sister and I stood in place of honour as standard bearers carried their flags into the chapel and took their places for the service. This was conducted by a friendly and caring lay preacher called Keith Brown and was heart warming and touching, at times both funny and sad.
Originally mum and I had decided we weren’t going to say anything at the funeral, but surfing the web the day after dad’s passing I found a poem which expressed perfectly just how his last moments had been and how mum, Jo and I felt about his leaving us. As soon as I saw it I knew I had to read it at the service, although every time I read it through the words always left me in tears and both I and the preacher were a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
Although upset and still somewhat raw during the service, I was determined I wasn’t going to cry. If I’d done that the poem definitely wouldn’t have been read as I’d never have been able to stop for long enough to get through it. Instead I gritted myself and tried not to think about the sadness as I waited for my cue, about half way through the service. I was so glad they didn’t play any of the music we’d chosen before my big moment or I’d have been a blubbering mess.
And then it was my turn. Suddenly I had to read the poem (slowly, Keith had told me) and it was then, standing at the lectern and looking out at the mourners that I realized just how many people had come to the funeral. The room was full and all those people were looking expectantly at me as I tried not to lose it up there in front of everyone. I took a long deep breath then launched into an explanation of how I’d come across the poem and finally said the words that meant so much to us:
God saw you getting tired,
When a cure was not to be.
So He wrapped his arms around you,
and whispered, "come to me."You didn't deserve what you went through,
So He gave you rest.
God's garden must be beautiful,
He only takes the bestAnd when I saw you sleeping,
So peaceful and free from pain
I could not wish you back
To suffer that again.
Amazingly, I managed to get through it without crying for the first time ever, but almost before I had a chance to sit down mum’s choice of song came on – “True Love Ways” by Buddy Holly and that was it for me. With mum sobbing openly now, all I could do was stroke her arm and try to comfort her as my own tears flowed silently down my cheeks. How we got through the farewell, where mum and I stood by dad’s coffin as the Kohima Epitaph was recited and the standards were withdrawn I don’t remember, I was too busy thinking of dad to take much notice of what was happening. And then they were playing our second choice, dad’s favourite song by his favourite band – “Wild West Hero” by E.L.O. and my tears were no longer silent. The song, always a favourite of mine too, evoked such strong memories of my dad that I couldn’t help but release the pent-up sorrow that I’d been holding inside for so long.
And then it was over and the final Spanish custom (touching the coffin to say farewell) was taking place, with mum and I at the head of the procession. Outside, we talked to the huge quantity of people that had attended and I admitted that I’d been terrified about my reading. Many of them told me the poem had been absolutely perfect for the occasion and most had assumed I’d written it as it was so “from the heart”. I shall state here that I’ve no idea who wrote the poem as it is generally credited as being by an unknown author, although several people have claimed credit for it, if Google is anything to go by.
Flowers are also not a Spanish custom, so instead we had asked people to make a donation for the Paul Cunningham Nurses, who had done so much to help dad in his final year. I am pleased to say that this raised almost five hundred euros for the charity.
And so a month has passed. In some ways it all seems like a distant memory, yet in others it’s still as raw as it was on the morning of dad’s death. I won’t lie, there were a few tears yesterday morning at 8am when I realised that it was exactly a month since he’d left us. A part of me can’t believe that he won’t be there waiting for me when I return to Spain and I know that whilst he will always be with me in my heart there will also be a little part of me missing that will never heal.
Jo, Freddie and I will be heading back to Spain in May, to spend a week with mum – giving her the chance to enjoy her grandson properly, for the first time, and giving us all a chance to say a final goodbye to dad as we scatter his ashes up in the mountains where he used to walk to the dogs.
Goodbye dad.
