'It's my first Father's Day without my dad, and I feel surprisingly OK'
By Jo Abi|
My sister was the first to ask what we would do for Father's Day this year, our first without Dad.
Without hesitating, I responded, "Lie on the floor crying," but I didn't mean it. I don't feel like doing that anymore. My grief was very Italian - hard and fast and loud and intense.
We ended up agreeing to do our Sunday usual, visit his grave and then head back to Mum's for afternoon tea, a ritual we started after he died. We used to visit him on Sundays, and during the week as often as COVID allowed.
We'd meet up at his aged care, and whoever arrived first would help get Dad out of his room and into either the family room or outside on the balcony, if COVID allowed.
Mum would always bring him a treat, a cake he liked, a dessert. We'd have to brush the icing sugar off because it would send him into a Parkinson's-induced coughing fit, and he could no longer handle the crisp pastry of his beloved sfogliatelle, so we would scoop out the custard and feed that to him instead.
I remember one of the workers at Dad's aged care would finish her shift about 30 minutes after we arrived. As she walked out, she'd sometimes spot us feeding him and either confront us directly, or, after a couple of altercations like that where we pretty much told her to get lost, she'd scurry inside to tattle on us.
Like Mum hadn't been caring for Dad for years before moving him into aged care, for goodness sakes.
We never got in trouble, and I'm really happy we don't have to see her anymore. I always thought she'd better suit working in maximum security in a prison.
There were a few workers like that but most were lovely. Although, some weren't as good at their jobs as others, like the one who, after shaving Dad, left him with multiple cuts. She was banned from ever shaving him again.
My first Father's Day without Dad isn't as hard as I thought it would be, so far, but I do feel something building up inside my stomach. I'm just not sure what it is.
"What is harder than not having a dad anymore is not getting to talk about him."
Father's Day has sort of snuck up on me, actually. I've been steeling myself more for the first anniversary of his death in November and our second Christmas without him, the first of which was a complete blur.
What is harder than not having a dad anymore is not getting to talk about him. People avoid the topic, thinking it will upset you, but I want to talk about him. I want to remember him.
I want to be able to talk about him whenever I like without anyone feeling uncomfortable or as though they need to say they are sorry.
Talking about my dad makes me happy, and having long conversations about him together really helped Mum and I get through those first few horrible weeks and months.
Still, there are some regrets that linger.
Dad was 85 and he'd lived a reasonably good life, but I still feel he shouldn't have died when he did. He'd been complaining about a sore stomach for weeks and instead of properly investigating the cause, which turned out to be an abscess in his digestive tract that burst and killed him, it was assumed he was constipated, as had happened many times before.
Each time I'd see him I'd ask him if he'd pooped and he'd say he had, so it wasn't constipation after all.
He'd also felt distressed for a couple of weeks before his death, like he sensed something was wrong. He was in a bit of a panic. I asked him if he wanted me to come and give him dinner every night, and he said yes.
"It was so hard to leave him when he was in a good mood, let alone when he was in a state of distress."
Mum visited him for lunch most days so he'd have plenty of company, plus my siblings visiting on weekends.
But his rising sense of panic and distress was really difficult to cope with, and I'd leave him feeling really upset. It was so hard to leave him when he was in a good mood, let alone when he was in a state of distress.
COVID hadn't helped. Since we'd placed Dad in aged care we'd been locked out more than once due to restrictions leaving dad feeling confused and abandoned, thus his panic if he didn't see us often.
I didn't give him dinner on the Thursday and the Friday before he got sick. I was feeling overwhelmed and he'd had additional visitors those days so thought he would be OK with me not coming. But I don't think he was.
I didn't normally go on Saturdays because he would have lots of visitors that day and I'd have a bit of a break and catch up on stuff at home. But because I hadn't gone on the Thursday and the Friday, I went on Saturday.
When I arrived, his room was closed. I was told they were changing his sheets. It was unusual because usually they'd do that while he was out of the bed. Then I heard an unusual sound and realised it was the sound of his laboured breathing.
Nobody had called us to tell us he was unwell, but the centre was short-staffed and as soon as I pointed it out to the head nurse he rang the doctor in charge, who decided not to come and check Dad.
I called my family and everyone arrived and my brother suggested calling an ambulance, despite the head nurse saying Dad was deteriorating and we may need to prepare ourselves.
Dad died four days later, in hospital, with Mum holding his hand and my sister by his side. We were all there that day, because we'd noticed some changes in his body and rightly assumed the end was near.
The swiftness of it was still shocking, how he was there one second and gone the next. It was like something had left his body. It was empty of him, and the experience has changed me.
I now believe more than ever in a spiritual realm that connects us all. Whatever it was that made my dad who he was left his body and went somewhere. Where it went, I'm not too sure. Heaven, a spiritual space, who knows.
All I know is I miss him every day, and sometimes I feel sad when I think about him, but more and more I feel at peace when I think of him.
I think that is because Dad loved me so completely จC and I loved him จC that we had no unfinished business. And yes, that is from the movie Casper, but it's the only way I can describe it.
We had long, long conversations each time I visited. We'd always talked like that, sharing our thoughts and feelings and memories and regrets. I miss those conversations and I believe that if dad had better medical care we could have had him for longer, but the elderly aren't valued in our society, so he died, like so many of our beloved grandparents and parents, earlier than they should have. But that's a conversation for another time.
This Father's Day, we will gather at Dad's grave. My brother is picking up some sfogliatelle and my niece said to remember to "bring Nonno his coffee", so we'll do that as well.
To everyone who has lost their dad, I just want to send you so much love, and Happy Heavenly Father's Day to all our dads. How lucky were we to have them, and they live on through us and our families.
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