I was with my Dad when he died - just the two of us, at his place. He'd had prostate cancer and had been getting treatment. After a spell in hospital, he'd been allowed home and seemed much improved. So it sort of stole up on us. That night I'd called in about 7 in the evening and found him dozing on the settee with the T.V. on as usual. On checking, I found he'd not taken his tablets so I mildly ticked him off and got them for him. Then I found he'd not eaten. I cooked him a meal and had to wake him again to eat it. I realised that it was his sleepiness that had messed up his routine and said so. 'Yes! If I could just shake off this tiredness' he said with an air of determination. These were to be his last words.
I left him to eat his supper and popped back home. I was back an hour or so later and found him dozing again with his meal hardly touched. I took the plate away and sat and watched him. He was in a deep sleep and snoring a little. Only now did I realise that this was no ordinary sleepiness. Somehow I knew this was the end. As I watched, the love in me for this dear man became overwhelming. I just sat transfixed watching him. It was moving like music, awesome like Nature can be. I just felt full of a sort of reverential wonder.
Then as I watched, he gave out three big, loud sighs. It was the 'death rattle'. Then stillness and silence. Now came the tears. I went over and knelt by his side holding his arm, talking to him and kissing his hand as I wept deeply.
After a few minutes I sat back and looked at him. I realised that he could have had no better ending. He was in his own home, sat in his normal place, television on and a half-completed crossword at his side. I felt hugely sad but hugely grateful. Grateful for the manner of his death but also for the privilege of being there with him.
