| Biographical Non-Fiction posted June 13, 2022 |
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Love can cope with difficulties.
Privileged to Care
by LisaMay
My ‘special time for my dad and me’ lasted for several years — from the time he emigrated from Australia to come and live with me in New Zealand, up until his death eight years later aged 89. Dad had never been on a plane or travelled overseas, so moving to New Zealand was a big deal. I admired his bravery, and also was greatly touched by his quick decision to say yes when I asked him if he’d like to come and live with me.
I knew my life had been greatly enhanced through being adopted by Dad and Mum when I was a baby and I always had a close bond with him as a ‘daddy’s girl’ while growing up. In my father’s declining years, when he was a widower and suffering ill health, I was able to reciprocate the care I’d received myself. Back then I was recently divorced; somehow it was reassuring to have my dad nearby. I’m sure he felt the same about my presence.
Due to encroaching Alzheimer’s Disease, his behaviour became more unpredictable and dependant. This presented challenges, but I treated it as a privilege to look after him in sharing his declining years. In a way, those last few years together were akin to winding the clock back and having a role reversal into childhood times again. Dad brought his paintings, books, and music with him, all familiar to me from years ago. He also brought his dog and cat with him. When I was a kid we always had a dog and a cat to look after, so it was like being surrounded by my past. He also enjoyed weekend trips away with me. Seeing the sights of New Zealand and sharing new delights with him made those trips fun.
When I was a child, Dad used to read long classical ballads to me when he put me to bed, such as ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ (Longfellow) and ‘The Charge of The Light Brigade’ (Tennyson). He could also recite by heart some Australian bush ballad poems by Banjo Paterson, for example ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ and ‘The Man From Snowy River’. Now it was my turn to read poetry and stories to him at night when he was restless, or we’d listen to his music record collection together. He also enjoyed sitting outside on a garden seat, whittling a stick with his pocket knife or carefully cutting an apple into segments, with his old black dog lying companionably at his feet. I could keep an eye on him through the kitchen window. Even now, many years since he died, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of him sitting there.
Eventually, Dad had to be admitted to an aged-care facility with full-time hospital care for his last 3 years. I couldn’t believe how he lingered, getting smaller and weaker, but still hanging on. I spoke to a gerontologist about it and she suggested I give my father ‘permission to die’. She told me that in her experience some elderly people thought they needed to stick around because their families still needed them, or they were scared about what happened after they died, or they had unfinished business.
In earlier years, when Dad was lucid, we had many interesting conversations about past issues in his life, which I knew were now resolved, and also I knew he didn’t fear death as he had spoken openly about that, so I began to think he was holding on to life because of his role as a father to me.
One day I lay down beside him on the hospital bed to have a heart-to heart. He was very frail by then and hadn’t spoken for some time (he also had Parkinson’s Disease and his vocal cords were impaired). I gave Dad my blessing to take his goodbye, that he had done a good job in raising me and I was competent in the world. Suddenly I became aware he was looking at me with full engagement, a lively look of recognition in his eyes. He hadn’t known who I was for the past six months. I jumped off the bed and went to fetch the doctor. “Dad’s come back. Speak to him!”
“It’ll be wishful thinking. He’s too far gone,” the doctor responded.
I insisted the doctor speak to him, so to humour me he said, “Hello Tom. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine thanks,” said my ever polite father. I was proud of him. They were his last words. A couple of days later, my father died peacefully.
When I remember my experience with my father’s last days, it makes me ache with distress for the many people who were denied this opportunity to say farewell to a loved one over the past few years, due to the pandemic. Being with someone on their final journey is a time for sorrow, but ‘my special time for my dad and me’ was also incredibly enriching.
A Special Time for My Dad and Me contest entry
My ‘special time for my dad and me’ lasted for several years — from the time he emigrated from Australia to come and live with me in New Zealand, up until his death eight years later aged 89. Dad had never been on a plane or travelled overseas, so moving to New Zealand was a big deal. I admired his bravery, and also was greatly touched by his quick decision to say yes when I asked him if he’d like to come and live with me.
I knew my life had been greatly enhanced through being adopted by Dad and Mum when I was a baby and I always had a close bond with him as a ‘daddy’s girl’ while growing up. In my father’s declining years, when he was a widower and suffering ill health, I was able to reciprocate the care I’d received myself. Back then I was recently divorced; somehow it was reassuring to have my dad nearby. I’m sure he felt the same about my presence.
Due to encroaching Alzheimer’s Disease, his behaviour became more unpredictable and dependant. This presented challenges, but I treated it as a privilege to look after him in sharing his declining years. In a way, those last few years together were akin to winding the clock back and having a role reversal into childhood times again. Dad brought his paintings, books, and music with him, all familiar to me from years ago. He also brought his dog and cat with him. When I was a kid we always had a dog and a cat to look after, so it was like being surrounded by my past. He also enjoyed weekend trips away with me. Seeing the sights of New Zealand and sharing new delights with him made those trips fun.
When I was a child, Dad used to read long classical ballads to me when he put me to bed, such as ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ (Longfellow) and ‘The Charge of The Light Brigade’ (Tennyson). He could also recite by heart some Australian bush ballad poems by Banjo Paterson, for example ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ and ‘The Man From Snowy River’. Now it was my turn to read poetry and stories to him at night when he was restless, or we’d listen to his music record collection together. He also enjoyed sitting outside on a garden seat, whittling a stick with his pocket knife or carefully cutting an apple into segments, with his old black dog lying companionably at his feet. I could keep an eye on him through the kitchen window. Even now, many years since he died, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of him sitting there.
Eventually, Dad had to be admitted to an aged-care facility with full-time hospital care for his last 3 years. I couldn’t believe how he lingered, getting smaller and weaker, but still hanging on. I spoke to a gerontologist about it and she suggested I give my father ‘permission to die’. She told me that in her experience some elderly people thought they needed to stick around because their families still needed them, or they were scared about what happened after they died, or they had unfinished business.
In earlier years, when Dad was lucid, we had many interesting conversations about past issues in his life, which I knew were now resolved, and also I knew he didn’t fear death as he had spoken openly about that, so I began to think he was holding on to life because of his role as a father to me.
One day I lay down beside him on the hospital bed to have a heart-to heart. He was very frail by then and hadn’t spoken for some time (he also had Parkinson’s Disease and his vocal cords were impaired). I gave Dad my blessing to take his goodbye, that he had done a good job in raising me and I was competent in the world. Suddenly I became aware he was looking at me with full engagement, a lively look of recognition in his eyes. He hadn’t known who I was for the past six months. I jumped off the bed and went to fetch the doctor. “Dad’s come back. Speak to him!”
“It’ll be wishful thinking. He’s too far gone,” the doctor responded.
I insisted the doctor speak to him, so to humour me he said, “Hello Tom. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine thanks,” said my ever polite father. I was proud of him. They were his last words. A couple of days later, my father died peacefully.
When I remember my experience with my father’s last days, it makes me ache with distress for the many people who were denied this opportunity to say farewell to a loved one over the past few years, due to the pandemic. Being with someone on their final journey is a time for sorrow, but ‘my special time for my dad and me’ was also incredibly enriching.
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