A Visit to Belgium
When I went to see my father, I wanted to tell him – well, what I wanted to tell him is all in my earlier blog post about that. What actually happened was that on Saturday evening, when I finally arrived in Antwerp and got to his hospital room and held his thin hand, I heard the bells chiming the hour at seven in the evening, and felt like a child again, taken effortlessly back to the days when I would marvel at that continental tunefulness, the high-flown, golden notes so filled with bright energy.
On Easter Sunday I sat and watched, listening to my father’s jokes, and bearing witness to his frustration, his simmering despair, and his battle with politeness, decorum and keeping up appearances. The food was awful hospital fare, and when my father gamely ate some – knowing he might choke at any second, the bravery was fairly mind blowing, even for that small act – he offered me a portion, saying, ‘Eat, eat!’ as he would have done when he was at the head of the table at home, watching over his brood. The efforts he took to preserve his normality, stilled my voice and filled my throat with pain.
On Monday, as the family were gathering for a farewell in another room, he wheezed, could not breathe and hated the endless coughing with its squeezing pain. What a crucifix of agony he straddled, as the nurse said, ‘sorry, I cannot give you any more antibiotics, but I’ll give you a sedative…’ and it was painful to watch him begging. There was nothing to his body then, but waste and sorrow, and I wondered, in the stillness, at the forced cruelty of medical treatments.
On Tuesday he died, peaceful and released from a torment that has been building for at least nine months, and from a process of physical frailty that has been gathering pace over the last four years. How I wish he could have gone out as he would have preferred to, in a blaze of glory. Now he is at peace, and there is a relief in knowing that his presence, while not physical, will be with me in the quiet moments, and in every chime I hear of the bells.
Please share:
April 2, 2016 @ 6:50 pm
Darling!
I see love, knowledge, acceptance here. You are beautiful.
April 2, 2016 @ 7:33 pm
Dear Clare – thank you! I know that learning to sit quietly in Meeting has taught me so much, about the value of seeing what is, accepting and being peaceful. If that makes me beautiful, it is another trait we share, for which I am immensely grateful. ((xxx))
April 4, 2016 @ 8:40 pm
My dear Fran,
The gifts your father gave to you have benefited the people who know and love you. I didn’t know you father but I like him.
Tam.
XXX
April 4, 2016 @ 9:23 pm
Thanks so much for your comment, Tam, and for your understanding. Bless you.
April 30, 2016 @ 8:53 pm
Dearest Fran,
This is a beautiful tribute about a heartbreaking farewell. I’m so sorry I missed seeing it earlier–though there it was for health reasons (upcoming surgery to get a pacemaker). Your description is tender and honest. It makes me think about a book I finished reading several weeks ago–trying to sort out my own approach to my health care at this time in my life. It’s by Atul Gawande, and is titled Being Mortal. I cried when I read parts of it–especially when he described his own father’s illness and death. Your father’s spirit is free, and I pray you and he will have many happy moments of pain-free connections. Sitting quietly. Such a gift and a discipline. Thanks for sharing this experience with us.
Love and hugs,
Elouise
May 3, 2016 @ 8:31 pm
Thank you so much, Elouise. I learned so much about my father, even in these last few days, and came away so accepting of him and his life and situation. There is nothing like the reality of dying to force us to confront the things we argue about, and realise they mean nothing. Lots of love and hugs! 🙂