The way it was before

Three hundred and sixty-eight days ago, I wrote this:

We went to see Pop tonight. He’s doing a little better. They’ve taken him off the drip, because it was filling his lungs with water. They’ve almost got the pneumonia under control with IV anti-biotics. He seemed a little cheerier although he could barely talk because his mouth and throat were filled with phlegm, which he had to cough up only he didn't have the strength. But he was smiling...

Hopefully we can get him out of there at the end of the week, depending on the results of a chest X-ray and an ECG, and into a care facility. At least when we’re paying for the care we can make more of a fuss about things; in a public hospital there isn’t much we can do about it.

He died six days later. It’s funny how events look so different when viewed from the opposite direction.

Monday is the first anniversary of Pop’s passing. I hate that saying—passed away—it sounds so neat and yet so feeble. It conjures images of a tired old man dying in his sleep, too weary to fight for life any longer. It conjures up a tidy death. But death is always messy. It’s an accurate description of Pop in his last days, hours, but it doesn’t represent the rest of his life. Pop was not quiet, he did not easily relent. That is why I hate it. It just doesn’t fit.

I went to St Marys Cathedral on Thursday to pray for Pop. I lit a candle for him, and for other members of the family. I’m having a mass said for him at the cathedral on Monday in his memory. Many may see these actions as a vain attempt to assuage my guilt or diminish my grief, but they aren’t. Others still will be shocked to know I made a donation (or paid, depending on how one views it) for the mass to be said and for the candles I placed before the Virgin. I don’t care what people think my motivation is; I did it because I love him. I did it despite feeling guilty and grief-stricken, not because of them.

The truth is I don’t quite know how I feel at the moment. I feel guilty that I didn’t see him the night before he died, instead going to Liz’s for dinner. I feel his absence, keenly. I’m aware of it more and more as I look after the donation of furniture to Fr Chris O’Reilly’s Youth of the Streets, arranging lists and photographs, waiting for next Tuesday—Collection Day.

As I sat on the train on Thursday, on the way home from the Cathedral, I realised that I’m petrified of forgetting him. Materially, he is slipping away, the house is sold, the furniture promised to a worthy cause, boxes of books have been sold or given away. I have kept some things for myself—we all have—treasures that I’ll hold on to, but still this irrational fear persists. I’m not afraid of forgetting how he looks, I have photos for that; it’s the little things, the way he smelt, the sound of his laugh, the sound of his voice, the way he spoke, the way he was. The way he was before the hospital, the mental confusion and the incontinence.

The way it was before.

When the hour is upon us
And our beauty surely gone
No you will not be forgotten
And you will not be alone
No you will not be alone

Now comes the night
Feel it fading away
And the soul underneath
Is it all that remains
So just slide over here
Leave your fear in the fray
Let us hold to each other
'Til the end of our days