Dear Departed

It was the worst news. It took her breath away.

Dad was going to die. What do you do with that information? It rolls around in your brain like a news bulletin, like that strip under the main story as the news broadcast rolls on.

And it stayed that way for quite a while, a fact, a one-liner, information.

It was her mother who had broken the news. Her voice was matter of fact, but her eyes showed a world of pain.

Its funny how we imagine our responses to these big moments, we imagine unimaginable pain, floods of tears, we imagine lamentation.

We never imagine the quiet.

Dad was young. Not yet 52. Our brother had only just hit his teens. Dads are not meant to die mid-life, mid-career.

And he had just started to enjoy life. All those years dedicated to wife and kids – those head down, butt up, that furious pedalling to keep afloat, those years were starting to recede. The waters ahead looked calmer, there were journeys to plan, there was that place where you ease up a little, just around the corner.

She busied herself on the lap-top looking for the latest breakthroughs in cancer research.

She made calls, had conversations with friends of friends who knew a doctor in Japan who was trialling a new treatment.

It was days before she came down to see him.

Parking the car, she saw strangers leaving the house. When she focussed, she recognised the woman from down the street, a kindly enough Adventist. She realised they had come to preach the afterlife and she felt a rage she could hardly contain.

She slammed the car door and put her head down refusing to acknowledge their solemn salvation conviction. Refusing to meet their eyes.

Inside the house she was overcome with a sense of distortion. Nothing seemed in proportion. The dread had made mirrors contoured, doorways larger, as though, like Alice in Wonderland, she'd had a drink from the “shrink me” bottle.

He was sitting on the living room floor on pillows, the TV droning in the background, his face turned to the screen in a pose of blind distraction.

All that weight loss we’d believed was a mid-life fitness ambition took on a different construction.

The jogging and healthy eating had disguised the haywire going on at a cellular level inside his dependable body.

They looked at each other and her thoughts scrambled.

His gaze steady, seemed to acknowledge the loss. It was a strange apology.

And it was her life that flashed before her eyes. The sing-songs in the car, the unsuccessful swimming lessons where his hand had jerked her spluttering from the crest of a wave, the admiring whistle when she put on her new party dress, the arguments about politics at the dinner table, his excited smile when she won a race on sports’ day, the shared tears at the end of a tragic movie.

Every real moment caught in her throat. It stopped her words. It choked back her tears. It prevented “I love you so much” from leaving her lips.

She poured him a glass of water.

He blinked a soft thank-you, adjusted his pained limbs, took the glass and sipped.

She plonked down on the couch behind him. He leaned his head on her knees and sighed softly.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the prattle of the evening news.

She was there now, she would be there again tomorrow, and the next day.

There was everything to say, but somehow there were no words.