When life takes an unexpected turn, the sudden passing of my father.

How do I begin?  It was only a little over two weeks ago early on Saturday morning that I heard the phone ring.  I was in the bathroom at that moment, so all I heard was Martin saying "it's your sister, it's your sister, she has to speak to you".  First thing in the morning calls from my sister have never been good news, so I already knew this was about my dad.  I begged the universe for him to be poorly but still with us, so that we could dash to be with him but my wishes were already too late.  He had died peacefully in his sleep at his care home, having had a totally "normal" day previously.  He had been getting weaker in the last few months, but nothing that gave concern.

Perhaps the sudden, unexpected part of this loss makes it more difficult for it to sink in.  The weekend passed in an emotional blur with a strange mixture of adrenaline and grief.  I had such a strong impulse to do something, to rush to his side and help.  But there was nothing we could do except sit in shock and tears and struggle to make any sense of it.  I didn't really want to tell anyone, because it felt impossible for this to be happening and real.  It was as if I had jumped over the "end of life preparation", when friends know that your father is poorly, that he is hanging in, that you've been up for some emotional visits, that it might only be a few weeks... None of these stages happened.

As a result of this sudden loss, I seem to still be in shock and disbelief much of the time.  And while still in this state of shock, I have found myself having telephone conversations about every aspect of practical "arrangements".  Even though spending days organising his funeral and services has felt important and hugely meaningful, it also feels confusing.  I still can't compute that he won't be there, enjoying the music and hymns that I've chosen.  When I get a moment to stop, I realise that my emotions are buried, squashed and only emerge when still or in the middle of the night.  I walk around the house with a heaviness and can only find solace when sitting on the beach looking out to sea.  There, I can sit for hours feeling some moments of comfort while watching the birds that my father also loved to watch.

My last conversation with my father had been the week before, on Skype.  We had Saturday morning Skype chats, that were set up by a nursing assistant who connected us up at the set time.  He had been watching the Olympics on his little television in his room, with his cup of morning coffee and a biscuit.  Nothing seemed different to usual.  Towards the end of the chat, he asked me whether I'd seen any avocets recently?  I answered no, feeling slightly disappointed that I didn't have any great bird observations to share.  Our most tender connection of late had always been about bird-watching.

A few days after my dad died, we went to have a meal outdoors on our friend's balcony overlooking the sea.  It was our first meal with them since the pandemic started and I didn't want to cancel it, even though I wasn't sure how I would cope with chit-chat.  As we ate the delicious food, I told my friend Wendy about my father asking about avocets.  She explained how shy these birds are, and that they might be seen nearer her end of the beach which is quieter.  A little later, as the sun was setting over the sea, she gently paused to say listen.  And we both heard it, the distinct whistle sound of an avocet, this black and white wader that my father had asked about. 

  

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose.

All that we love deeply becomes a part of us"

Helen Keller.