Dad has died. Aged 96, peacefully at the care home from old age, as we said in his obituary. I held his hand as his breaths grew farther and farther apart, like midnight waves in a lazy summer sea. He gave a surprised gasp. Then he was still.
Kerfuffle followed, carers elbowing me aside to check Dad’s pulse (or lack of it) and open the window, apparently to let his spirit out. I didn’t remind them: this was Dad we were dealing with, so his spirit would depart in its own good time and not necessarily through the window, thank you very much.
Instead, I thought of all the things he’d loved – dogs, trees, Django Reinhardt, a good Rioja, and wondered where those enthusiasms had gone now he was no longer there to feel them.
I called Mr MS. When he arrived, we took on the chin a well meant talk about how we might need counselling. There was no shame in it, we were told, not even for Mr MS. Then the carers kindly left us in peace.
The doctor took forever to arrive. This was a blessing as during that time we were able to sit with Dad in the hot, fetid little room that had become, as Bones used to say to Captain Kirk, ‘home, Jim, but not as we know it.’ We gazed out across the care home courtyard at houses Dad had latterly insisted were the same ones he’d looked on as a young man working in Dursley, Gloucestershire.
In the care home kitchen, Mr MS made us a cup of tea.
I welled up. ‘It’s sad to be making two cups, not three.’
‘I could always make him a cup too,’ said Mr MS.
We decided not, but noted that sitting quietly drinking tea in Dad’s room was so similar to our recent routine, it was as though he was still there. Dad had stopped speaking in the last few weeks, communicating only in sign language. We didn’t know why. Perhaps he’d become so deaf that he couldn’t hear his own voice.
‘Should I do the Codeword?’ I asked. It had been another ritual. I’d buy Dad the paper, pass it over, and he’d pull out the puzzle supplement and give it back to me. I’d act delighted. Except it wasn’t an act. When Dad was happy, I was happy.
He liked to be hospitable. At his previous care home, he’d relished pressing his emergency call button to order us tea and cake.
‘It’s all free!’ he’d crow.
‘It isn’t,’ I’d think.
But Dad had no idea about care home fees, nor that he got no help from the government to pay them. I hated keeping it from him. But he was careful with money (‘mean,’ Mum would say when he’d annoyed her) and the knowledge would have tormented him.
Back to the Codeword. We decided not. Instead I held Dad’s hand (still warm) and thought how lucky I’d been to receive a weak thumbs up the day before when I’d brought him tea. He’d said a mute goodbye to me later that night, sitting up in bed and taking both my hands in his. Then he’d turned back to the pressing matter of dying.
Mr MS and I talked about my Mum’s death. When Mum and Dad moved up North to be near us, Dad had become obsessed with the local greeting, ‘Y’alright, luv?’ and said it at the slightest provocation. When Mum was lying in her hospital bed in a coma, he tried to bring her round by saying it loudly several times in a cod Yorkshire accent. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
No greeting was going to bring him round now, though. In a way it was just as well. He’d had enough of life, or rather life as an infirm old man, a state he found outrageous right to the end.
But by golly, I miss him. His opinions pop daily into my head, in his exact voice.
My first letter of condolence came from local government. Dad’s surname was Bassett. ‘We are sorry to learn of the death of Mrs Edward Sutter,’ said the letter. It was a baffling mistake, as his National Insurance number was quoted correctly, and you’d think his name would be automatically linked to it. In my head, he was incredulous. ‘What a bunch of halfwits! I mean, who are these people? Can’t they get anything right?’
He didn’t stop there. Every day he has something further to say. ‘Look at that mountain of flesh!’ he exclaims, when I see someone particularly overweight, or, ‘he hasn’t got much between the ears,’ when someone makes a silly mistake. ‘Screaming brats,’ he says when children pipe up in coffee shops.
I don’t know what to do with Dad’s voice. I assume it’s just a phase. But my normal, mild mannered self is terrified that one day his words are going to pop out of my mouth. If they do, please forgive me. I am my father’s daughter, after all.
Thank you for this beautiful sharing, Mandy.
Not at all, Claire – thank you so much for commenting. It means a lot.
That’s beautifully written and overflows with your love for that irascible old father of yours. Long may you keep hearing his voice and if it pops out from time to time, well, I think that would be rather wonderful.
Mandy that is very beautiful and very generous of you to share with us. Thank you. Much love to you, and your Dad. x
My condolences and my thanks for this wonderful tribute.
What a lovely blog Mandy and written with such love.I hope it’s not the end. Thank you for sharing such an intimate emotional moment with us all.
Such a beautiful and warm tribute to a loved and loving Dad. X
and you’ll always be your father’s daughter – and our special friend.
It was a privilege to share this Mandy – thank you.
Thank you for saying that, Sue, it’s so kind. Much love to you too x
Thank you Fokkina, it’s my pleasure.
Sue, it seems so important to me to articulate and communicate – so I really appreciate your reading it and and commenting. Thank you.
Thank you Clare! Lovely to hear from you xx
So kind – the thanks are to you for reading and commenting Maria xx
Aw, thank you so much Bob for reading and commenting and that really is a lovely thing to say. I hope to go on hearing him too. X
I think you capture your Dad’s spirit very well and there is a wonderful mix of poignancy and humour in your writing. I love the ‘midnight waves in a lazy summer sea’. What a beautiful image. I also liked the fact your Dad was mischievous, ringing the emergency bell for tea and cake and saying outrageous things. I expect his voice will go on talking to you forever – a comfort and a stimulus to more great writing I hope.
A heartfelt Mandy, a difficult time but remembered with honesty. Love Joe and Julie
Thank you for that wonderful appreciation Emma, it means a lot. And you made me think that perhaps Dad’s voice IS a strange kind of inspiration. So much of value lies in the contrast between his way of thinking and mine! Thank you. X
Thank you so much for saying that, J and J. I’m glad you feel it is honestly recollected – that means a lot to me. X
Sending you much love, Mandy. Such a beautifully written post and, as ever, reminding me of the similarities with my own dad. He too was a bit of a character and, towards the end, increasingly impatient to “peg it”. Twelve years on, I still hear his voice, and yes, I find his grumbles come out of my own mouth … I have a strong feeling this will be just the same for you. You will, as you say, always be your father’s daughter and share a cuppa with him. xxx
Dearest Mandy,
This was an extraordinary piece. Absolutely beautiful. Thank you for writing it and sharing it with us.
With much love,
Ange
Thank you so much, Ange. When you and my other readers respond, it makes it all more real. Much love
Glynis, thanks for that beautiful thought, especially about sharing the eternal cuppa. Increasingly impatient to peg it!! That made me laugh, as I can just imagine it. They didn’t mince their words, did they? Much love to you xxx
Such a beautiful, moving article Mandy, thank you for writing it and giving it to us to read . I was there when my dad died ,25 years ago now, but I’ve not forgotten an instance of it. For weeks afterwards I wanted to say to everyone ,”You do know we actually die, don’t you ? There is a before and an after, and the after is very very empty no matter how ill and disabled the person has been.” But I didn’t and now like most people just keep on keeping on and not thinking about it too much.
Beautifully expressed and I know how you feel x
Thank you Moo, that fellow feeling means a lot. X
Oh Janis, that’s it exactly, the emptiness is such a shock no matter how much one tries to prepare for it, as is the pressing on afterwards almost as though it hadn’t happened. I think that’s to do with the sheer mystery of it – it’s so impenetrable. It’s reassuring to know that you haven’t forgotten the details of your own Dad’s death because I don’t want to forget either. Thanks and love to you xx
Hi Mandy
So sorry to hear that you have lost your dad, but I love the picture of him smiling. But so he would have done with such a daughter – well done – I am sending this on to Katrina, my daughter as she too makes me laugh! Smile on forever! Bernard x
Oh, that is lovely Bernard – hooray for Katrina, and long may she make you laugh too! X
I’m so sorry for your loss Mandy… What more can be said at events such as this…
Thank you Mandy, for such a delicate experiance so movingly expressed.
I found myself ‘speaking for my Mother’ after she died – it gave me great comfort to read your words.
Look after yourselves in the bereavement process over the years.
Helen, thanks so much for these lovely thoughts and words and I’m just as comforted as you to think that there is a chime in our experience of speaking for our parents. Much love to you.
What a wonderful piece of writing. I love your blog. This is the best memorial you could give him. It also helps us to think through the death of our own parents and touch that grief again. We all need to keep sharing the passages of life.
Thank you so much Clare for these kind and insightful comments. I agree completely – it’s good to keep in touch with our deeper experiences. Much love.
A beautiful heartfelt piece of writing we can all relate to. My dad died 27years ago and I still hear his voice clearly on a regular basis particularly when I’m dealing with something I might have discussed with him if he were still here. It’s always very comforting! Love, Cath xxxx
Cath, that’s good to know. 27 years ago and you still hear his voice! Dad always had something to say about financial matters and as I’ve been sorting out probate and everything I know exactly what he’d say as various things happen! Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Much love xxx
Beautifully written Mandy – I get a real sense of who your Dad was. Xx
Thanks so much, Debbie. That’s lovely. Xx
Mandy this is very moving and I’ll miss your blog about your dad and the allotment. My Mum still inhabits my voice (she died in 2002) and I did write a poem about it a few years ago. She had a ‘southern’ accent and a set of phrases that have now become a strong part of my vocabulary. In us, the real life of them lives on. lots of love Marilyn
That’s good to hear, Marilyn. I’ve a fear of forgetting, I must say. Funny how some days they are so strongly with us yet on others they seem very far away. Great to hear from you – thanks.
That was so moving to read, Mandy even though I didn’t know your Dad. I felt I did from your blogs and am sad. But your humour brought back memories of my mother ringing her bell at her care home for tea and me trying to stop her. Keep on with the blogs.
Ah, good to know that your Mum got up to the same kinds of things, Felicity! Thanks so much for your lovely comment.
Loved reading this -will miss your posts about your dad
Thank you Jill! Hope all’s well x
Such a beautiful piece of writing.
I also remember making one less cup of tea.
It’s such detail that serves as a hook to hang the overwhelming emotions on.
X
Thank you Bernard. That is lovely and so well put. The little, daily changes in routine are poignant, aren’t they. It’s as if they point to the mystery of all the big things that we can’t really understand. We’re left with the details. Love to you xx
Dearest Mandy – thanks sooooooo much for writing this wonderful piece and for sharing it with us all. You’ve written it brilliantly with your great mix of humour, honesty, poignancy and acute observation of all those telling details. Through your lottie blogs, I’ve felt that I’ve got to know your Dad, so I wasn’t at all surprised that I got teary reading of his death. But absolutely as you say – he’d had enough. Your phrase ‘he’d turned back to the pressing matter of dying’ is really powerful – and so true. I so admire you for telling it like it was, and how you so deftly switch between heart-stopping poignancy, then straight into laugh-out-loud details like ‘his spirit would depart in its own good time and not necessarily through the window, thank you very much’ and your Dad shouting Y’alright luv’ in cod Yorkshire to your Mum. Everyone’s been raving about Alan Bennett’s ‘Talking Heads’ lately (I’m writing this in July 2020) but I’ve found them mawkish, and horribly bitter. Your humour and pathos are sooooo much more in focus, so much more vital and real. My Dad died very suddenly out of the blue but I’d been with him in full health just 4 days before and I remember walking into his studio and seeing all his brushes and pens laid out ready to pick up and complete the painting he was working on – and that all that had just winked out of existence. All those years of building up his observational skills, his drawing, his colour sense, his use of different media – all gone. It seemed inconceivable that it had completely vanished. But even now, 16 years later, I still hear him, and still think – oh I’ll ring Dad about that, it’ll make him laugh. So never fear, your Dad’s voice will stay with you – he’s half of you, and you should let him out whenever you want. Now go and have a cuppa with him. Big hugs, C xx
Dear Char, thank you so much for your wonderful comments and observations. I shall cherish them. In fact, reading them has made me blub all over again! The story of you walking into your Dad’s studio and seeing all his painting things laid out… that is so touching. As you say, it is inconceivable that his artistic expertise, hard won over the years, vanished into thin air with his death. I just can’t understand it! In the words of Jackson Browne, ‘it’s like a song I can hear, playing right in my ear, that I can’t sing. But I can’t help listening.’ I wish I knew where all the Dads had gone. But I’ll go on chatting to mine in my head, same as you. It’s comforting to know that 16 years on your Dad is still talking back. Love and hugs XXX