It's funny what you remember and what you don't. Some things from those days, seven years ago, still play in my head like they were yesterday. The actual moment, when it came, will never leave me, nor the pain and the guilty relief that came with it. I remember some of the time leading up to it. The Christmas celebration on the 18th, a day or so before he started slipping away. Sitting in the room next door, trying to get on with some work, knowing he was there, slowly being lost in a haze of morphine. I don't remember where I slept though. A couple of nights my bed was the floor downstairs. Was it all the time? I must have been there for at least a week - where was I sleeping that whole time? Did I come home at all, or was I there the whole time? Was I really working?
The strangest little details remain - excitement that "The Kids From Fame" was showing on a TV channel at 6 in the morning. The fact that we gave him dried fruits as a Christmas present. The duvet cover that was on the duvet I used. The darkness that seemed all pervading.
That darkness can still bringing it all flooding back now. Waking at 7:00am and it still not being light. That half light on these few days will still send me back there instantly. To nights of restless sleep, and the feeling that we would be caught in a twilight world on the brink of death, forever. And it will always, always bring back the guilt. The willing him to let go, to stop suffering, to die.
I wished my own father would die. And then I felt relieved when he did. That will always live with me. In some ways, seven years ago can seem like a lifetime. But in the depths of winter, on the longest day of the year, it seems like yesterday, and my sorrow is as fresh as it ever was.
1 day ago