Are we too late in the year to still be saying Happy New Year? I kind of think that still being held to ransom by a global pandemic, all bets are off at the moment so, sod it: Happy New Year to you all.
It has been quite a while since my last post and quite a ride that I’ve been on for the last few months. I am now in a position to tell you what has been happening and what the result has been.
During October 2020, we received the news that my Dad had Stage 4 terminal bowel cancer. How do you deal with that when you’re living in a Tier 4 city during a global pandemic? Well, I went into a “support bubble” with Mum and Dad which meant that I could travel to see them and support them.
Dad went through radiotherapy to try to shrink the tumours. However, we never got to find out if it worked. I went to visit him about a week after the radiotherapy had finished. Although he was in some discomfort as the radiotherapy aggravates the tumours before it starts to take its wanted effect, he was still in quite good spirits. We had a good conversation. He was lucid, cognitive and I had a good visit.
However, not 12 hours later, Dad was in hospital after having a fall and was in hospital for two weeks after that. Mum obviously couldn’t even visit him and when she was able to speak to Dad, his calls were so distressing to Mum as he was confused as to where he was, he wanted to come home and no one could do anything about it.
Dad came home on 19 December 2020 and Mum was absolutely shocked to see the deterioration in her husband after just two weeks in hospital. He didn’t want to go back to his chair in the sitting room. He wanted to go straight to the hospital bed that had been set up for him in their spare room. This was not a good sign. This was not Dad. Dad spent the following six weeks in that bed.
I went straight up to see them on Monday 21 December. Carers had been arranged to come in several times every day to clean Dad and to turn him and to address the bed sores that were inevitably to follow. On that Monday, Dad was still lucid and cognitive and we had a good conversation. What followed over the next few weeks was nothing short of the disappearance of my Dad completely.
I was back there for Christmas and Boxing Day. Again, because of the Tier 4 COVID-19 restrictions, we couldn’t have our traditional family get together on Boxing Day, so we had to do a Zoom call with my sister and her family so that Dad could see the grandchildren at some point at Christmas. Dad was already deteriorating. The Zoom call was difficult. He was in a lot of pain and it took us a couple of goes at it before Dad could see and talk to the little ones (albeit in already stunted sentences). Boxing Day was maybe the last day that I had a reasonable day of coherent, lucid conversations with my Dad.
I agreed a plan with Mum that I would visit at the weekends, not just to see Dad but to give her a break. Dad was officially in palliative care at this point, preparations were already being made for end of life care and the paperwork for a “DNR” (Do Not Resuscitate Order) had been delivered to Mum on Christmas Eve (lovely).
Each visit (after a COVID-19 lateral flow test to make sure I wasn’t taking that with me on top of everything else) was met with an even further deterioration in my Dad’s health. I went from having a good chat with him about the football, the cricket and the grandchildren to him focusing on one topic and making sure that I carried out his instructions, to him not knowing who I was. By the time the end of January rolled around, he knew that he had a daughter but he didn’t know how old I was or where I lived. He didn’t even recognise me. On Sunday 31 January, for the first time, I cried in front of Mum. I didn’t think Dad could deteriorate any further until I saw him that weekend. Mum popped out to the shops and I just sat with Dad, held his hand and told him it was okay if he wanted to go; that my sister and I would look after Mum. He didn’t talk at that point. There had been talk of vascular dementia, the cancer spreading to his brain because we already knew it was in his lymph nodes. On Friday 29 January, an assessment had ben carried out to officially move him from palliative care to end of life care which would be formalised on Monday 1 February. That was the last time I saw him.
On Wednesday 3 February, Dad died. I knew it was coming. When I had returned home from that final visit, I had told my sister and Jill that there was nowhere else for Dad to go apart from to pass away. When I saw Mum’s phone number come up on the house phone that morning, I just knew. Mum didn’t want either my sister or I to drive to their house that day because she didn’t want us risking our lives to drive that distance in such an emotional state. We said that we would go to see her the following day. We were in full lockdown by this point, but this was our Dad and this was our Mum. I spoke to Mum’s friend and asked her to be with Mum that day whilst everything was being done to sort Dad out and to take him away from the house. I spent the day between outbursts of tears and trying to tell myself that Dad was in a better place, he was at peace and he wasn’t in pain anymore and that my Dad as I knew him had left a long time before he actually died.
How do you cope with such grief during a lockdown? I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. However, this was not the only tragedy suffered in my little corner of the universe during this time.
A couple of days after Boxing Day, Jill’s Dad passed away from COVID-19. Not one week later, her Mum passed away too, also from COVID-19. Then, a dear chum of mine (I shall call her Martha) lost her Mum too. Oh and that’s not all. My fabulous Great Auntie Ethel fell asleep at the grand old age of 102 and just didn’t wake up. So, in the space of 36 days (yes, just 36 short days from the day Jill’s Dad died to the day my Dad died), my little corner of the universe imploded. Literally, imploded.
Five people in 36 days. People I loved, people I had been on holiday with, people I genuinely cared about and wanted in my life. Now I know that there are people out there who have experienced dreadful loss because of COVID-19 and I do not diminish in any way what they have had to go through but, as much as you try to tell yourself that there are people in the world worse off than you, to try to deal with all of this on your own in lockdown is almost impossible. Your sole concern is how you are going to get through the next minute, hour and each day. I couldn’t be with Martha because of the distance. I couldn’t be with Jill. There was so much concern about if any other members of her family had COVID-19 (which they did), so I couldn’t risk seeing her, catching it and taking it to Mum and Dad’s. I was having lateral flow tests before each visit home and was basically self-isolating between each visit to Mum and Dad’s. Zoom and FaceTime became a life saver. Virtual hugs were everywhere during this time. We couldn’t touch and hug each other but we could all cry in front of each other, but I still felt (and feel) so dreadfully alone.
In the space of a week in the middle of February (not even two weeks after Dad had passed), there were three funerals – Martha’s Mum, Jill’s parents and Auntie Ethel. I gave a reading at Auntie Ethel’s funeral and then at Dad’s funeral, I delivered the Tribute from my sister and I. That was a really tough day. We still couldn’t hug. I was still alone in my grief and I had to try to do Dad proud with the Tribute. I think I did. My sister and I adopted a lighter approach to preparing the Tribute. The funny stories, the sarcasm, the mickey taking and some of the things that we had learned from Dad. Jill and Jack watched the live stream of Dad’s funeral and said that both Mum and I did a really fantastic job and they didn’t know how we had managed to hold it together. I did almost crack. It was when I first mentioned my sister’s kids, I started to fill up but I took a deep breath and carried on.
A week after Auntie Ethel’s funeral, I had my first COVID-19 vaccination. But, I’m still having lateral flow tests before every trip to Mum’s and I’m still isolating in between visits. Now that Dad’s funeral is done, it’s all about sorting out the paperwork. Mum is the Executor of Auntie Ethel’s Estate and Dad’s so she has both to deal with! The woman is an absolute legend. I’m trying to take as much off her plate as I can – talking to various providers that Dad used such as Amazon, eBay, really the peripheral stuff so that Mum can concentrate on the banks. We are slowly but surely, shutting Dad’s life down. We still don’t know yet if a Grant of Probate is going to be needed for Dad’s Estate – it all depends on the response of a couple of the banks. That could take months yet to get that finalised. However, Mum has her “To-Do” lists of people she needs to contact every day and I am trying to help her with that as much as possible.
I’m trying to be there for Jill as much as possible too and Martha. Jill and her sisters have had to sort out their parents’ house all in one go and their Estate all in one go. I so desperately want to hug both Jill and Martha, not just to let them know that I’m here for them but, quite frankly, I need a damn good hug too from someone who can genuinely say right now, “I know how you feel”. Losing a parent is one thing, but trying to deal with it all during a global pandemic is something else. So, how do you deal with the grief? More on that in my next post.
Living The BPD Life 