Not Knowing What to Write Upon Losing a Beloved Parent

I lost my lovely dad in March (trigger warning for dementia/loss)

Dad and I in 2012

Life is so hard to predict, isn’t it? Last spring I thought my dad didn’t have much time left.

He’d had vascular dementia for several years and his physical health was rapidly declining, so we were fully prepared (as much as you can be) for saying goodbye. He was 95, so when he went into hospital with Covid¹ a year ago we doubted he’d be back home, but he pulled through. Even pneumonia and another hospital stay in October didn’t bring him down.

I was surprised that he saw Christmas, but deep down, I knew it would be his last.

And it was. On 13th March this year, my dad slipped away peacefully in his sleep. I’d stayed the night at my parents’ house — as I have done many times over the last few months — to support my mum (who’s 91 herself), but from what his carers told us and judging by his declining health that week, we suspected it was time.

So for all those ‘worst case scenarios’ we’d imagined about how the end would pan out, it was as peaceful for my dad and as stress-free for my mum as we could have wished for. It’s the strangest thing to say about the loss of a loved one. But that’s what it was: stress-free, at least as far as coping and managing goes.

My dad wasn’t in any pain. He was at home with family, not in hospital. He’d had a long and very happy life, and he was cheerful till the end. My mum was with him, and I was with my mum, and I was there to do what had to be done for her, taking the stress of arrangements away from her.

Here’s another strange thing. I’m the youngest of four children, the designated ‘baby of the family’, especially as there are nearly ten years between me and my nearest sibling. I live ten minutes down the road from my parents so have always been the first-point emergency contact for geographical and practical reasons. Despite all that, I never for a moment imagined that I’d be the one who’d have to make the phone calls to my siblings just before 6 a.m. on a Thursday morning to say that Dad had gone. I never felt ‘grown up’ enough to accept that responsibility, if that makes sense (you may know what I mean if you, too, are the ‘baby’ of the family). The official phone calls you have to make aren’t fun either, but they had to be done.

But it was me who was there when it happened, and I did make those phone calls. I’m forever grateful that one of us was there to support my mum and to relieve her of the things that no one wants to have to do when a loved one passes away. When you’re 91, easily confused and your eyesight is deteriorating, it’s almost an impossible task to work through the grief of losing the person you’ve been with for 73 years and, at the same time, have the presence of mind to know who to call and what to do. She could never have coped by herself.

It’s the weirdest thing to say, but I’m forever grateful for the way it happened. Even the funeral was as lovely as it could be, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. The sun shone, the turnout was amazing (especially as my dad outlived so many of his friends, peers and family members), my brother gave a fantastic eulogy, we all wore bright colours as per my mum’s request, and we truly made it a celebration of a wonderful man who lived a wonderful life. Even my 13-year-old great-nephew getting heckled by his three-year-old cousin during a poem reading responded brilliantly and made us all laugh; my dad would have loved that.

I wish that sort of end and celebration of life upon everyone who deserves it, because it really was the best way to go in all senses of the word. So many people don’t get a wonderful ending, and I wish that weren’t true.

So life froze for a little bit. I didn’t give up writing my Substack, but I needed a break. Two months has now passed and I’m ready to write regularly here again. My dad was a creative and a doer: DIYer, builder, artist, poet, draftsman, athlete. He was also a very eloquent writer and public speaker and was quietly proud of what I achieved in my blogging career. When he was still able he always read my blog posts and gave me little critiques (they were always positive, of course). He’d cut out articles from magazines and newspapers I’d been featured in and pin them on his noticeboard. I feel it’s only fitting that I continue on in my writing journey, because he would have wanted that.

I’ve mentioned before I’m currently writing my debut novel — the first draft is finished and I’m in the heavy editing phase — my only regret is that I didn’t do it ten years ago when he would have been mentally sound enough to understand what I’d done and to possibly read it. A fantasy romcom may not really have been his thing, but I know he’d have given it a go ;)

With my parents on my wedding day, 2006

I titled this post Not Knowing What to Write Upon Losing a Parent, and when I started I had no idea what I’d be writing or what point of view I’d be writing from; I just wrote. I needed to get back into writing more freely, something without the necessary structure and discipline required for my novel, and here we are.

If you’re going through something similar with a parent or loved one, I feel for you. Dementia is a draining disease for everyone who cares for the person who has it. The dad that I lost was lost a long time ago, and I’ve been missing him for many years now. I’ve moved into a different stage of grief and am dealing with that, plus we have to take care of my mum differently now as she’s having to adapt to a new life and deal with her own grief.

A weight may have been lifted from our shoulders, but our hearts are now heavy.

I just want to say: Dad, you really were a wonderful, loving, tremendously popular and warm-hearted man.

Thank you for giving us a fantastic childhood and for supporting us in every way imaginable as adults.

Thank you for always loving and treating my husband like he was your own son.

Thank you for always wanting to spoil the dogs with too many treats (we know you were feeding them under the table)!

Thank you for teaching me everything you knew about DIY and gardening.

Dad showing me how to build raised beds in 2007

Thank you for keeping your sense of humour right up until the end and keeping us all on our toes.

Thank you for a thousand other things I could list here.

Thank you for being you.

Bye for now, Dad. Love you always ♥

1. He was fully vaccinated thankfully