Our Last Conversation

You were confused
And tired, so very tired
Tired of all the pain and indignity
Tired of relying on others
Tired of seeing your children run ragged
Tired of feeling that you were a burden

You were always a good father to me
Though I didn’t always appreciate it
As a child, only words of love are heard
Mother’s words, because men couldn’t say those things
Looking back now, I remember my Mother’s words
And I also remember how your love enveloped me, keeping me safe.

The energy that had drained away over two years
Returned to you that day with a vengeance
No-one told me that it meant the end was near
Not that it would have changed anything
We’d taken the opportunities to say things that often go unsaid
I didn’t want you to leave, but I knew you were ready.

You said you were thirsty, and I got you a drink
Out of a shiny red training cup with a lid
You were finding it hard to hold a teacup
You kept spilling hot tea all down yourself
And it made you so upset, so angry with yourself
And so sorry for making work for the nurses
The circle of life became clear to me then
As I watched your return to infanthood.

Things were on your mind that day
You worried about money
You wanted your “boys” to be OK when you’d gone
You thought you had misplaced £400
I knew it was in the hospice safe, but I gently helped you look for it
You calmed down and fell into a light sleep.

I sat there for two hours, contemplating the cruelty of cancer
But also thinking of those good times throughout your illness
Memories shared, and feelings voiced that so often go unspoken
I thought of your gracious acceptance of your fate
“It’s just one of those things” you said, never complaining
Whispering softly,  I told you that I loved you
You made a noise in response, which I took as “I love you too”.

As it grew dark, I knew I had to leave you
I still had 200 miles to drive home
Taking your hand in mine, I told you that I had to go
You opened your eyes, strength returned as your hand squeezed mine
“Don’t go yet” you said, “Stay with me a little longer”
This was the first time you’d asked me for anything
In your two years of being terminally ill
I said “Sure” and squeezed your hand again.

I stayed for another hour
We didn’t talk as you drifted in and out of sleep
But I kept squeezing your hand, and each time you squeezed mine back
Eventually I had to leave
You needed to sleep, and I had to get away from the hospice
I sat on the bed to hug you
Again, your renewed strength both surprised and winded me
I kissed your cheek
Stubbly, because you could no longer shave yourself
“I love you, Dad”, I said
You looked me in the eyes and said “I know”
I think I knew then that those were your last words.

The following day at work, I had a call from the hospice
“Your Father slipped into a coma during the night”
It’s only a matter of time now”
In the early hours of the following morning, I was woken by another call
“You’d better come now, it’s almost over”
I dressed and drove those 200 miles back to the hospice
I met my brother John there and together we sat with you
You seemed in a deep sleep, but your breathing was laboured
Sitting either side of your bed
We each held one of your hands in ours
The nurse said that you might be able to hear us
So we both talked about all the good times
And told you how much we loved you
Then, with one big sigh, it was over
Your suffering was at an end.

Two and a half years have passed now
I still think of you daily
I don’t get upset all the time anymore
I think more of the good times
Of which, there were so very many
For me, there is no “if only”
Everything that we wanted to say was spoken
And the last thing you said to me
Was acknowledging how much I loved you.

Copyright (c) Robert Ford 1996