not being there
by Megan, NSW
writer, Aged 43
My father died in the nursing home in England where he had lived since he had a stroke two years before. My younger sister and I were in Australia, where we live, when it happened. We live in different cities, and spend a lot of time on the phone to each other. We knew he wasn't well, but no one can really tell you when to come. Afterwards, you think you should have known, but at the time, it's not that easy. You have to trust your intuition.
My older sister and my brother were with my father. They had been called in when he took a turn for the worse. My older sister rang me, and told me that the nurse had said he probably wouldn't last more than a few hours. I was frightened for him. I really wanted to be there. I asked my sister to reassure him, to send him all our love, from me and my son, to give him a last hug, and to call me as soon as he died.
I had a friend staying with me whose father had died recently, on the other side of the world. He knew exactly how I was feeling. Even though he had only met my father once many years ago, he had dreamed about him the night before. He dreamed that music was being played for my father on bottles by my friend's young son, everyone singing and happy, and then my father left. I had dreamed about my father too, a couple of nights before. I had gone back to my childhood home, and looking up seen my Dad in an upstairs window, looking younger and cheery, talking to an old friend of his.
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