In Loving Memory

I've always been afraid of dying. In fact, absolutely petrified. It's one thing in life we are all sure of but never prepared for, even when it's expected. It never seems a fair part of life at whatever age we go.

Way before I was born, even before my dad had met my mom, he was diagnosed with COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) when he was just 35. This name wasn't given to it then but was known as Emphysema, more commonly. COPD is inflammation of the airways, usually triggered by smoking, working with solvents, dust, to name a few. It's treatable but incurable and eventually gets worse the older we get. Dad had worked all his life in a factory as a steel fitter and smoked occasionally on nights out with his friends. This is where his illness came from. In 1979, he was told he wouldn't live longer than 12 months due to the severity of the illness but he fought hard for his six children and worked where he could, carrying oxygen cylinders around with him and puffing on inhalers to keep him going. Fortunately, Dad was young enough to recover from the "bad patches" of illness and most days, carried on like any other young man. He met my mom in his 40s, and quite quickly they got together and found out they were pregnant with me.

Growing up, I remember Dad having bad days, ones where he would have to stay in bed for a couple of days at a time. Sometimes he couldn't run around with me for too long as he became short of breath, but after a rest, he'd be running around the field with me again. He was just like any other dad to me. I was too young to know how the illness would eventually take over him. He was such a pleasant man. Always smiling and laughing, joking around (usually rude ones) and just generally loved life. You would have never thought he had a long-term illness.

My dad had been really poorly for some time. It was the start of all his major problems. His heart, his lungs — they weren't functioning as well as they should, they hadn't been for a long time, and they were starting to take it toll on him now. He was in his 50s and he wasn't as young to recover as well anymore, but it wasn't Dad's way to lie in bed letting others take care of him. He would joke his way through weeks of hospital admissions, keeping positive and bouncing back. He just amazed me, but it didn't stop me worrying myself sick over the years that one day I would eventually lose him to this horrific disease he'd been fighting with most of his life. And it was only going to get worse. Nothing could prepare me for what was going to creep upon me one day.

Not long after Dad's admission with his first bout of illness, I lost my cousin, my best friend. It broke my heart in two. I was young and going through so much at that age, I felt like I was going to break. I couldn't imagine life without him. He was so special and vulnerable it just wasn't fair to take him for no reason at all. He was so young, only 25, it just didn't seem right.

I lost my aunt when I was 17. She had the biggest brightest character I'd ever known anybody have at the time, always laughing, always smiling, even in her darker days. And then, she was taken away, again, way too young at only 45. She'd been ill for sometime but again, it just didn't seem fair that this would happen to someone so young.

I was 19 when I lost my Nan. The only Nan I'd ever known — I'd never met my dad's parents. The sweetest and most caring lady with a heart of gold was gone from my life. She did so well to recover from such a big operation at 80 years old and then just like that, she passed away. How? Why, when she was doing so well? Even though I knew she was a grand age, I felt betrayed that she'd been given another chance after her operation but still got taken away from me after I got my hopes up that she was going to be okay.

As well as all the usual teenage stresses with school, friends, boys, etc., I was dealing with losing my nearest and dearest with no clear understanding of why. I just couldn't get my head around any of it, no acceptance of why we have to go.

I'd lie awake most nights playing out scenarios in my head of my loved ones passing away and imaging how I'd react and what I'd do. I'd dream about funerals over and over again. I'd cry myself to sleep thinking the worst possible things about my living loved ones. It wasn't normal and it certainly wasn't pleasant to experience. My dad's illness circled my mind over and over and tormented me at my most vulnerable times. I couldn't switch it off.

I say this started when I was 13, but I remember feeling exactly the same way when I was a very young girl. I barely slept and I made a fuss to go to bed at night because I thought something would happen to the people I loved whilst I was asleep. I was scared of being left alone wondering if I would wake up to having no one there for me. My parents must have thought I'd grow out of it as I got older, but it just turned into something else.

In my 20s, I got told by a doctor that I had anxiety based around illness and death. It was something that played on my mind and something that I didn't want to accept. They just told me "I needed to try" to accept it, and that was it. No help whatsoever. Funnily enough, I became a nurse, surrounded by illness and death every single day. I don't think it occurred to me at the time of what I was in for. What made it worse is that I found out more and more about Dad's illness through my training and it only made my anxiety grow stronger. I experienced patients with the same illness as him who eventually lost their battle, and it was nauseating to know that Dad was approaching the same sort of age.

Over the years, he started going in and out of hospital more and more, each time deteriorating slightly, but then he'd find his fight and pull through it again. He completely amazed me how strong he was, how brave he was, and how he kept going after doctors had told us on numerous occasions that it wasn't looking good. He came home and carried on again with the same upbeat personality and comedic tormenting ways. But my anxiety just increased, subconsciously worrying about receiving the dreaded phone call.

On 30 June 2017, I had THAT dreaded phone call that had been playing on my mind for years. Dad had been taken in again but this time, something didn't seem right. The doctors had delivered the news to my mom that this time his outcome really didn't seem good and that he was at the end of his life. I raced there to be with them thinking this was the last time I would ever see him. The doctors argued between themselves around intense therapy or just letting nature take its course. It was awful to hear them debating over someones life, but me and Mom both knew that a decision had to be made. He just lay there with many wires and lines attached to him, it was unbearable to see him struggling. He couldn't talk, he barely moved, and wasn't conscious most of the time.

It was decided they would try the highest level of care possible to give him the best chance. He was moved to critical care for a few days for high intense therapy. And guess what? Out of nowhere he sat up talking, eating, drinking, joking like he always does. We couldn't believe it, he's bloody done it again! How a man so frail and struggling so much could keep doing this was amazing. But he couldn't keep going; this time his body had had enough. Over the days, Dad deteriorated quickly, he wasn't himself, he wasn't the man I knew. He wasn't ready to go, but he knew he didn't have a choice.

On 13 July 2017, he sadly had to let go and pass away peacefully, surrounded by his family. A single tear fell down his left cheek as he took his final breath and his hands let go of ours. My whole world came tumbling down; the nightmare I'd been thinking about for years was upon me. I hugged him tightly and lay on his chest for a moment hoping to hear his heart still beating. His face turned pale and felt so cold when I kissed his cheek for the last time. This wasn't happening. What the hell do I do without my dad? The man that always made me laugh, that cuddled me when I was down, that man who would give anything just to see me happy, who had my back no matter what. My body felt empty and like a big hole had been excised from my heart. How was I going to cope with this? I couldn't handle this before with other family members, but IT'S MY DAD NOW!

Over the days, I cried, I stopped eating, I was quiet, I was angry, sometimes I smiled remembering the silly things he said or did, but most of all I was heartbroken, shattered into bits. I just wanted him back. Selfishly, I just wanted him to keep going. I felt like I should have had more time and more memories to make with him.

As the numb weeks went by and the more I spoke to people, I realised he was now out of pain, in a happier place, and getting together with all those people he'd knew and lost. It made me feel peaceful thinking of where he was and how he was feeling now. I'm not sure where that place is exactly, whether it's what we know as heaven or somewhere as equally as peaceful.

My mom has been brilliant, such a strong amazing woman who has always been my rock but now more so, and she too has peace knowing he's not suffering anymore. We found comfort in each other talking about what he'd be doing and how happy he would be to be free from illness, catching up with his mom, dad, family, and friends. We still feel him with us all the time and we talk to him when we need that bit of comfort. Other days we just sit and cry with each other for periods of time missing his presence and conversation.

I started tuning in to watch Tyler Henry, Hollywood Medium (thanks, sis), who made me realise that death is not the end. Our spirit lives on and only our shell is gone. I became fascinated at his view on death and the afterlife. It gives me great comfort to think my dad is always with me and he'll always send me signs to let me know he's still standing right by my side. I've found peace with death and come to accept it so much more since Dad's passing. I know now that it's nothing to be scared of, it happens to us all and one day I'll get to meet everyone again who I'll lose through my life. We'll never be gone, we'll just be in a different world — a more peaceful and happy world to what we seem to live in today.

For now, it's time make the most of the precious, small amount of time we have here. We'll never really know when our time is up, so today, we must laugh, love, make memories, and live life to the fullest.