One year ago my dad died. I sat, in a remarkably
uncomfortable armchair, next to the hospital bed in our living room. Watching
YouTube videos, listening to podcasts and his breathing all night. Staring at a
screen helped keep me awake and videos meant I didn’t need to let go of his
hand. Around six in the morning something shifted and I finally felt the fact
that I hadn’t slept in over 36 hours. By now dawn was breaking and we opened
the curtains as I staggered over to join my sister on the sofa bed that had
been constantly occupied by someone or other for the past few weeks and my mum
took up watch in the uncomfy chair. She was with him at the very end, my sister
and I a few feet away.
Afterwards, surprising absolutely nobody who knows me, the
first thing I did was put the kettle on. It was one of the things we said over
the next few days that in twenty years when we were looking back on that first
week, whatever else happened at least we weren’t dehydrated.
Imagining how I’d look back on all of it in twenty years
helped. I couldn’t think about what I wanted in the moment, because what I
wanted was my dad back and healthy. But I only had once chance to bury your
father so I got through it, because I had to. I didn’t want to go to the
funeral parlour (who would?) but I’m glad I had that opportunity to be talked
through what could happen by someone who does it a lot. The funeral director
asked about the wording for the obituary and I am glad I got object to his
suggestions (“Forever in our hearts,
never to be forgotten sounds like something a funeral director would say,
he’d hate it”. Still not really sorry about that Mr Funeral Director). Putting
together a playlist for the coach ride from the church to the burial site, and
then from the burial to the wake. Parts of it were for us, but mostly he’d have
approved. We hit all the high notes: Disney, James Bond, The Beatles. Decorating
the coffin with copies of a lifetime of photos, the priest called to see how we
were coping only to be greeted with a coffin on the coffee table and a tea tray
on top of that. (Well where else was it supposed to go?) We needed many cups of
tea.
In twenty years I think I’ll still be happy with what we
did, there’s nothing that in the last twelve months I have had regrets about
not doing.
As a way of living it goes against a lot of the current
trend of self help advice. Live in the moment, experience the now, be present.
Being present was painful, the moment I was experiencing was excruciating.
So I let go of all that, I asked myself- with almost
everything- what would I look back on and regret missing, what would I be glad I’d
done. I didn’t do a reading or give an obituary at the funeral, I don’t do well
at funerals and when I get upset Dad got upset. He did his best but female hysteria
was always a source of abject terror. It would have been incredibly difficult
for me, to try and hold it all together and I didn’t want that pressure. I gave
myself permission to absolutely fall apart if I needed to. There were tears and
snot, but there was also laughter.
The past twelve months have passed and I’m still using it as
my touchstone, ‘in twenty years what will I wish I’d done in 2017?’ I’ve given
myself permission to grieve, to ignore the voices telling me I’m letting
opportunities slip by or wasting time. I know my own mental health well enough
to know that I can’t rush it.
In 2037 I highly doubt I’ll be telling people that I wish I’d spent less of the last twelve months being patient with myself, less time with my family, less time healing.
In 2037 I highly doubt I’ll be telling people that I wish I’d spent less of the last twelve months being patient with myself, less time with my family, less time healing.
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