Heavy post alert.
When my Dad passed away, myself, my Mum and 2 of my kid brothers were in the room. When I arrived his eyes were barely open and his breathing was acutely laboured, massive change from the night before when he had Miles Davis on.
As you entered this room there was a sani squirter to do your hands, but my Mum who worked in palliative care for decades said “there’s no need”. Less than 10mins later he took a few slower breathes, then paused, then one staggered breath, head roll to his left and gone. Still. No more pain.
My brothers went into meltdown, I hadn’t seen them cry since they were kids, big heaving uncontainable weeping. Agony in the death garden. And I sat in this chair, quiet, still, while my Mum took his pulse and a nurse came into confirm the the time of death, looking at this scene of monstrous sadness, unable to emote anything.
We all hugged each other and my brothers left, phoned my sisters (the worst conversations of my life) and my Mum and I must have sat in these chairs for an hour or more, silent, heads bowed, thinking of 40 or 50 various moments and scenes from his journey through this illness. It took me 3 years to allow myself the space to let out a wounded howl at how nature could put such a steady reliable man through so much physical and emotional trauma. I even drove way up into the Peaks, where no-one would be and screamed at the gods like a madman. Screamed and cursed and swore vengeance on all the deities for allowing this, for creating this morass of pain.
That’s crying.