Sitting Quietly with Dad’s Body

Trigger warning: this is a personal story of death, shared with some detail. Please read with care.

Dad died here at his home on Easter Sunday. It was a good death in that he wasn’t afraid of dying, and he was so ready to leave his tired 90 year old body behind. He was actually looking forward to it.

We had met with Ash, the funeral director, a few months ago when I had to call into their offices. I introduced Ash to Dad as the young man who would be taking him out in a box. Dad shook Ash’s hand with enthusiasm and asked if Ash had time to do it that week. Dad roared with laughter. That was Dad. Every time I went next door to say goodnight, he would ask me if he could leave, and I would answer, “All in good time Dad, all in good time.”

On Easter Saturday, he was already in bed when I went to visit. He said he was tired, and I leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, which was not a usual occurrence, and said, “I hope you sleep well.” He smiled, his head resting on the pillow, and I turned out the light and left.

Dad had been quite sick the previous weekend. I had taken him to radiology for scans, then to Emergency to see the vascular surgeon, and then to his GP to talk about palliative care. His abdominal aortic aneurysm had grown significantly, but the surgeon said it could still be three to six months. Dad was clearly disappointed, though he still rose to the occasion, cheeky and charming with all the nurses.

We came home and over the next few days he rallied. He was eating chocolate, drinking coffee, and did not complain of pain. We had three lovely days watching The Blue Planet, classical music and game show, me doing some hand pottery, and both of us simply relaxing in his unit overlooking the village and out to sea.

At 4am on Easter Sunday, I woke and began writing a tribute to him. It was honest and raw, not something I would read at the ceremony, and the words came easily. There was no effort in my writing, just a steady flow. Our regular Sunday morning bike ride had been cancelled, so Roger, my partner, and I stayed home. I read the tribute out loud to him and my voice faltered, my throat burned, there was a weight in my chest, and I cried. There was discomfort and gratitude in the stories I was sharing about my Dad. Then, as quickly as it came, it passed. I was grateful for whatever needed to move through me.

Usually I would have visited Dad after the ride, but that morning I feel it was grace that had me find him. I could tell from where he had left his night torch and dressing gown that he had risen early, showered, and died on his way back to the bedroom. His body was crumpled on the floor, cold though not yet set. I had the sense he had died not long before, perhaps even as I was reading those words aloud, feeling everything I needed to feel.

Although the sun had risen, it was still dark in his unit when I opened the door, the blinds were closed, and there was no response to my usual whistling. I saw his feet first, then turned the corner and saw his body, twisted, his eyes rolled back. I touched him and felt the cold. I went back home and told Roger that Dad had died, and cancelled the carer who was due to arrive within the hour.

We straightened Dad’s body, placed a pillow under his head, and I sat beside him on the floor.

“My dad has died.”

I sat and let my heart settle. Dad had wanted this for a long time, and now it was here. He had left his body.

I have always said, “If you come in and find your beloved dead, just sit, and make yourself a cup of tea.” and hear I was, leaning into this moment.

About half an hour later, I called my sisters and my children, and then I sat some more. There was no rush, just the simple telling, holding space for each response.

I could hear the noise of the Sunday morning café outside his front window, laughter and music drifting up, moving through the stillness. The silence inside was palpable and beautiful. There was a deep peace in simply sitting with his body.

I made myself a small bowl of cornflakes with milk and a few sultanas, Dad’s breakfast for at least the last fourteen years. I sat in his chair and said farewell to him. I even enjoyed the crispy crunch of the cornflakes.

Before lunch, I called the funeral directors, who advised me to contact the ambulance so they could complete the Verification of Death. The paramedics came quietly, no sirens, no fuss, just as I had asked. They were kind and respectful, completing the paperwork and confirming there were no suspicious circumstances. Just a few days earlier, Dad’s GP had prepared the letter for palliative care at home, and Dad had signed an updated DNR and Advance Care Directive. I had both on the kitchen bench, which made everything flow with ease.

The paramedics checked in with me before they left, asking if I was alright to stay with him. I was. I was grateful for that time.

Mid afternoon I called the funeral directors again, and they came and ceremoniously took Dad into their care.

A friend later wrote that she was curious what it was like for a funeral celebrant to be with her own father in death.

I could feel my experience in the way I moved through the day. I knew what needed to be done. I was at ease caring for his body. I took care to give myself time, to include my sisters, to watch the light move through the house, to close the door and create a protected, uninterrupted space. There was shock, and moments of it feeling quite surreal, and alongside that a familiarity and ease. The longer I sat, the more my body settled, and the more present I became. For much of the day, there was nothing to decide.

I can speak more in another post about my role as my dad’s funeral celebrant and how that touched both of us.

Dad had a good death. And while I feel the rightness of his leaving, I also feel the absence. I miss the rhythm we shared, the ordinary routine of being in his life and caring for him.

My youngest sister asked if I could leave Dad’s home as it was that morning. As much as my efficient mind wanted to move in and organise, I left everything as it was when I first walked in, aside from a few things in the fridge. I had three quiet days before my sisters arrived, and I cherish that time now.

The following weeks have been busy, practical, and demanding, physically and emotionally, as we packed up his home, sorted memorabilia, and cleared his unit. And then, as quickly as everyone had come, they were gone. Dad’s unit is empty, quiet, and still.

As I walk over the headland back towards the village, I can see his lounge room blinds are open, but he is not there.

I know he would be very happy about that!