or, it will be on the 22 of June.
It was traumatic at the time. I spent days howling (quite literally). Dad was old and not in great shape, and I had been preparing myself for the worse for a while. Enter Covid. No one could visit him in the hospital. I live in Scotland, he lived in Italy. No flights. Even if I’d been able to take a flight, the hospital would not accept visits.
He died alone.
I hope they made him comfortable. I hope a nurse was with him.
I was away from my siblings, away from it all. Powerless. Dad was cremated in August. I couldn’t be there (lockdown). My siblings didn’t take any photos of the place, nothing (morbid? A way for me to be there with them, with him).
In October, a funeral. I was finally able to go. I held the urn with his ashes close to my heart for hours.
I kept crying. Fearing Christmas incoming. There was another lockdown, and I crashed. January, February, most of March, I just spent them in my bed, only getting up for dinner, to spend an hour or two with my partner. Rinse and repeat.
Now it’s been a year. And my life has started moving forward again, if slowly. I try to think of the good times I had with my dad, the things we did together, all that he taught me.
But I still cry.
I’m still angry.
I still can’t think of his last days, all alone.
My only silver lining is that he wanted to be with Mum (passed away in 2009, due to cancer) and now he is, if there is a spiritual life of a sort.
Sorry for the long post. I know everyone here has suffered and is suffering. I wish I could wear some official Mourning clothing, a black band or something, to show on the outside that I’m still grieving. I want everyone to know I miss my dad.
hugs x