Lourdes and home again: The death of my father

Written by Gerard on Monday 29 June 2009

My father died at roughly 5:30am on Thursday 25 June 2009. Later that day, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett would follow him, a fact I’m sure he would not care about.

As you know, he died from lung cancer and the weakening side-effects of chemotherapy which left him vulnerable to pneumonia. This is the story of his final journey, the discovery of his cancer and those short, final two months which led to his end.

Lourdes

It all started back in Lourdes. He woke up on the second morning of a short holiday unable to breathe properly. He was quickly hospitalized and given a scan which revealed the tumors. I flew out the next day to be with him and my mother and provide some support.

We flew back on the Saturday going directly to the airport from Lourdes General hospital. There we met the tour group the pair had travelled out with and spent the next few hours in their stark but modern departure lounge. Well wishers from their tour group came up to say hello, but we downplayed the reason for his being hospitalized.

Back home

When we arrived back in Northern Ireland, we arranged an ambulance directly to the nearest hospital. My father spent the next few days in Antrim Area Hospital, where he was due to undergo tests. However, he was released until the next week because pressures at the hospital meant they couldn’t actually do the tests, and he was more at risk from MRSA staying in hospital. Basically, being sent home was better for his health.

A week later on a Friday, he returned for an endoscopy. I went along to the hospital with them, and the tissue sample was gathered in a short space of time, so my parents came back to my place for lunch.

The very next day, he ran into complications, and his difficulty breathing returned. Later on, he collapsed in the bathroom and wasn’t able to get back up. Cue a quick one-way ambulance ride to hospital in Coleraine.

He never actually returned home after that point. As soon as a bed became available at the Cancer Centre in Belfast City Hospital, he was transferred there from Coleraine.

Belfast

And so the remainder of his illness and treatment was carried out in Belfast: my mother and sister staying with us for the first couple of weeks and then moving in with an aunt a bit closer to the hospital.

The doctors were clear from the beginning: there was no cure. Only a hope of a little extra time through chemotherapy. Sadly, the successive chemotherapy treatments left him feeling weaker and weaker and susceptible to pneumonia. We noticed a thinning in his arms and legs. The presence of this, and the loose skin it left behind was a daily reminder that he was fading.

At the same time, we had some great times in the hospital. I’d visit during the day when the kids were in school and sometimes take Daniel down with me too.

He spent his birthday in the hospital, and we went down as a family. The room was packed out with relatives though, and we couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He made eye contact with me, and without saying a word, I could feel his sadness. Although we went home, I slipped back later that night when everyone else had gone away and chatted with him. And though I’d tried not to do it in from of him, I cried. We sat in silence holding each others’ hands.

Once or twice we walked to the massive panoramic window on his floor and bathed in the evening sun and chatted to each other. And on one of his final nights I stayed in his hospital room, just glad to be close to him and be able to do something during the night to help him.

Last weekend, he started to decline in earnest. A scare on the Sunday night (21 June 2009) meant that we started to arrange vigils. For some reason that I can’t ascertain, people believe it’s important to be at the bedside at the moment of death. Sometimes we don’t get that chance. I stayed in the hospital three nights in a row, and he died on the fourth night. Typical bad timing!

From Sunday onward, the decline was marked by brief moments where it looked like he might regain his strength. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be. At 1:00 on Thursday morning (25 June), his hands apparently started to swell and he received some pain medication. By 5:30am, his pain was gone and so was he.

Ballycastle

Suddenly, funeral arrangements had to be made. My dad’s belongings, my mother and sister hastily packed up and I drove them to the family home in Ballycastle.

I won’t bore you with the details, but the next few days sped by in a blur of distant relatives, neighbors and friends popping in to pay their respects. Saturday morning, we were marching down the street with a coffin on our shoulders, and a short while later lowering it into a narrow grave.

So finally, early Sunday evening, I took my mother down to the graveside. The journey that began in Lourdes and included stays in four different hospitals was finally over. And today, nested in a picturesque corner of a graveyard in Ballycastle, my father rests. We’re glad that he’s no longer suffering from the tumor, but now we have to suffer for a little while from the emptiness that he leaves behind.

We miss him.