A joyful beginning

I know most people think of death as an ending, but I prefer Peter Pan’s outlook – “to die will be an awfully big adventure”. Many major faiths, including my father’s beloved Christianity, teach that death is merely a threshold, a transition into something wonderful.

My Dad, about a month before his death

So I know that when my father died on 4 June 2010, he returned home, to a form of pure positive non-physical energy which my human brain struggles to define, but nonetheless accepts as real.

I was immensely privileged to accompany him on that journey, and I will hold the memory of that week as one of the most precious gifts of my life. He set the tone for the rest of us, and while he was not consciously present for the last days, his work had already been done and his room was a haven of peace, love and serenity.

Being a retired doctor, he knew exactly what was happening to his body. He didn’t want to die at home, where Mum would have the physical struggles of nursing him. He didn’t want to go into palliative care where he’d have to get used to a whole new set of nursing staff, good though they would be. He was happy to stay in his hospital room and he loved his nursing and medical team. And of course, hospitals held no fear for him. That’s where he and Mum met when she was a nurse and he was still a medical student. It was a comfortable, familiar territory. It helped that the medical and nursing staff at the brilliant Holy Spirit Northside made sure his condition was stable and pain-free, for which I know he was immensely grateful (as were we).

I flew to Brisbane just a week before he died, arriving after lunch to spend the afternoon with him. I remember saying to him that I knew both of us would find joy on the other side of this process he was experiencing; and that I didn’t intend to wait, but rather would be doing my best to feel joy as much as possible right now. He gave me one of his enormous, beautiful smiles and said “exactly”.

The weekend was one of hilarity and riotous party-making, and I thought we might be the first people to ever get barred from a hospital! He held court, surrounded by Mum, his three grown children, their spouses and all six grandchildren (aged 13 to 7). Yes, there were tears from time to time, but mostly it was laughter and reminiscence and the occasional confession. My brother finally fessed up to something done over 30 years ago, which had us all in stitches once we’d recovered our jaws from the floor.

And during this time, he tirelessly ministered to everyone around him. Anyone who needed it got one of his rib-cracking hugs, whenever they wanted. When his granddaughter collapsed on his bed in tears, he held her quietly until she felt better. There was no drama, no angst, no fear. Whatever he had felt of those things, he’d dealt with in his own way, long before this moment. He blessed us all with his courage and kindness. I told him that when I go, I hope I do it with half his style. And I, too, wept all over him a few times, and was held and comforted.

Dad's hand holding mine

Over the following days, he slept more and more. Mum and my two brothers and I kept vigil, taking it in turns to hold his hands. He’d wake and see us nearby, then smile and drift off to sleep again. He saw visions towards the end, angels in the form of his own mother, his late partner from his medical practice in England, even the Rector from his church. He initially called them morphine hallucinations, but when we shrugged and said “maybe”, he began allowing them to be as real as they wanted to be. He had at least one of us with him always, and he finally slipped away quietly in the early hours one morning.

I want to say thanks, Dad. Because of you, I no longer fear death. I have loads to do before I go, so I’m not planning on making that choice for a while. Throughout your life, you led by example, demonstrating how to be a decent, kind and positive person. It’s typical that you kept teaching right up to the end, showing us a good way to die. Namaste.

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