The Rest Is Silence

When I first started this blog I thought I would write a day by day account of my time in Ireland. A few weeks have passed and I don't quite feel the need to do that now. Maybe that's part of the grieving process. I thought by documenting that period, I wouldn't forget anything. However, I don't think I will forget. Well, not until I get old and my memory perhaps starts to fade!

So I guess this post is a (rather lengthy!) summing up. A little bit of closure in a way. I may take this blog down another avenue - yet to be decided! I have my photography website/blog for my photographs, but I haven't really got another place to blog about everything else. We'll see.

On my Dad's last day he had the breathing tube that he so hated taken out. The day before my Aunt and I had a meeting with the doctors who said they had made the decision to take it out. It wasn't breathing for my Dad, but it was helping him. Someone had to explain this to my Dad. I volunteered. "Dad, the doctors are going to take out the breathing tube in the morning, but once it's out the Doctors won't put it back in again. OK?" He nodded. I went in early the next day, when the breathing tube had been taken out. "Are you glad to have the tube taken out Dad?" A shake of his head; No. Shit. It was obviously harder for him to breath on his own than he realised and the nurses said it would take him much more effort.

The other thing he was very keen on was to get out of the ward he was on. I asked the Doctor again if he could be moved. At 6pm they took him to a side room off the Intensive Treatment ward. It was more private and had a little window. I hoped he would see it in the morning and it would give him some hope. They say if patients can see the sky they get better quicker. Dad had been quite sedated all day, so he probably wouldn't have realised he had been moved.

I stayed with him until about 9pm before going back to the hotel. I asked the nurse if she thought it would be ok, and she said yes, and that she had my number should she need to call. My aunt called at about 10.30pm to let me know that she took a notion to go back to the hospital and sit with my Dad.

I had a bite to eat, but couldn't really sleep. At about 2am a nurse called; it was best if I came in. I have never panicked so much in my life. I called reception and told them to call a taxi, to tell them to wait and it was an emergency. I threw on my clothes, jumped in the cab and got to the hospital in record time. It was very quite on the ward, and the lights were dimmed in my Dad's room. The nurse closed the door, giving us privacy.

My aunt and I sat at each side of his bed and held his hand. I am not sure he knew we were there. Apparently when people are sedated they still have a sense of awareness. The nurse had switched off the heart monitor screen in his room so we couldn't watch it which is probably just as well as we would have been glued to it.

We could hear my Dad taking each breath. Then his breathing got slower. And slower. He breathed out. The nurse came in. "He hasn't breathed in! He hasn't breathed in!!!" I said to her. "He's going now", she replied and she left the room again. He took one more breath and he was gone. All these words started pouring out. "I love you Daddy. We are here for you. Granny and Grandad will be waiting for you." I can't remember everything I said, there was just a stream of words and tears.

We said our goodbyes and I was left on my own with my Dad. I said goodbye again and again. I kept walking to door, then returning to his bedside. I gave him a hug and a kiss and told him again and again that I loved him. It was 3.45am on Wednesday 20th January.

Later in the morning we returned to Londonderry. The funeral director visited and all the practical details of the funeral were arranged. I was in an exhausted, emotional daze at this point and anxious to get to my Dad's house. I wanted to be around his things, to sit in his arm chair, to be alone.

The wake was held on the Friday at the funeral home. I was very reluctant to go. I had said all my goodbyes to my Dad already. But I went, and got through it, and said goodbye to my Dad again. The day before I visited a shop and got my Dad a couple of medals and a little card with one of his favourite pieces of prose on it; Desiderata. I picked out a photo and slipped them into the inside of his jacket.

The chapel of rest was packed and everyone gathered at 5.30pm for the priest to say some prayers and for my Dad to be taken to the Cathedral ready for his funeral in the morning. The hearse drove slowly up the hill and everyone followed. I kept looking behind me at all the people. Passersby on the street stopped and respectfully bowed their heads. I was so pleased that so many people had come along and hoped my Dad could see it.

The last time I was at the Cathedral was with my Dad. I managed to persuade him to come out with me at 4am to take some photos of the city for my photographic project; the 4am project. He wasn't too keen on it at first, but he really enjoyed the experience and seeing his city at another time of day. I know he was very proud when some of the photographs made it into his local paper, the Derry Journal.

At the Cathedral, the priest said some more prayers, and I said goodbye to my Dad again. I asked the priest if I could go up to the top and take a photograph. Someone escorted me up a stone spiral staircase. It's such a beautiful place and I was so pleased the funeral was held there.

The cathedral was just up the road from where my Dad grew up (and where I lived for a couple of years). There is a school attached to it, and I went to school there years ago. Derry does feel like a second home.

The next morning was the funeral. It was a cold, still, foggy day, though the sun was trying to break through.

I had been given a reading to do. I am so glad as I wanted to be able to say something at his funeral. Luckily it was at the beginning of the mass. I held it together, and spoke clearly, my voice only breaking a little bit at the end, "May the Lord be with you."

A friend of the family did a reading too, and sang a hymn. She has such a beautiful voice. That's when the tears broke through.

The priest said some words about my Dad based upon what one of my Dad's child hood friend had written. I can't remember a lot of it, but I do remember the priest telling the story of when my Dad was a school and taking his English exam. My Dad has added a PS at the bottom of the exam paper; 'PS The rest is silence.' This is a quote from Hamlet and it has stuck with me.

O, I die, Horatio;
The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit;
I cannot live to hear the news from England,
But I do prophesy the election lights
On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice;
So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less,
Which have solicited. The rest is silence.

I asked my friend Katie from Super Cool Design if she could design something around the quote using a 'Shakespeare' font. The design is perfect and I now have it printed and in a frame. The words that my Dad wrote many years ago at school mean so much to me now.

We also had another female singer at the funeral who sang about six hymns. I chose Ave Maria. It was so beautiful to hear it in such a setting, and I know my Dad loved that song.

My Dad was buried with his Mum, Dad and brother. I can't really remember what the priest was saying as I stood by the grave side. An old lady stood next to me and held my hand. I still don't know who she was but I am grateful she was there.

As I said goodbye to my Dad again, I took a flower from one of the wreaths. It was the wreath that was placed on the door of the funeral parlour. I now have it pressed in one of my Dad's big dictionaries.

I spent a week in my Dad's house altogether. I chatted away to him. Took some photographs. I didn't want to disturb anything.

Unfortunately, the practical things had to be done and as the days went by items were moved and dislodged from their usual places. I made a pile of mementos that I wanted to keep. I found a list of his favourite songs, and later a memory stick with them on. I found a list of his favourite films, which will be films I will now watch.

To my surprise I found a ticket from our holiday in Rome in his wallet. It's the exact same ticket that I keep in my purse!

My Dad always loved doing crosswords. I kept the last Times crossword that he was working on. It's quite funny, as he frequently won the The Times crossword competition over the years, so he would sometimes enter mine, or another family members name on there instead!

I have lots of photographs that I have yet to go back and look through when I am feeling strong enough.

I learnt a lot about my Dad after his death. I met his old school friends. I learnt that he was probably not feeling great for some time before he went into hospital, but didn't want to tell me in case I worried. I learnt that his hearing difficulties had a much bigger effect on his life and his confidence than I realised. I learnt that he was very, very proud of me, even though he didn't really tell me.

I wish he was still here, just so I could have one last conversation with him. I wish I had said more to him whilst he was in hospital. And I miss him.

I hope he his happy where ever he is now, and he knows how much I love him.

Last Rites

A week before my Dad passed away when he was still in the high dependency ward, my Aunt and I went into the hospital a little earlier than normal visiting times (3.30-8.30pm) to meet with one of the Doctors who was looking after my Dad.

Dad was asleep when we arrived so he didn't know we were having the meeting and I was relieved.

The meeting was held in a tiny office which struggled to fit myself, my aunt, the doctor and a nurse into it, making it feel very claustrophobic. The doctor and nurse stood up, whilst myself and my aunt were seated. It wasn't good news basically. The doctor said he was surprised that Dad had lasted this long and that he was on a "sticky wicket". There was no point in trying to dress things up, Dad was very, very ill. The doctor said a lot of other things, I probably asked some questions, but I found it really hard to 'tune' into what was being said.

I had been in Belfast for about 5 days prior to this meeting and up until then I was trying to keep optimistic, telling myself that my Dad would pull through, that it would take some time, but he would be ok. I told my Dad that too when he saw me talking to a nurse and wanted to know what had been said. I lied to him. I stood there, at the end of the bed, the nurse keeping me updated, and had a stupid big smile on my face. I think I even gave my Dad the thumbs up sign before telling him everything would be ok.

I remember finding it hard to hold back the tears after the meeting with the doctor and the nurse. I hadn't let Dad see me cry and I didn't want to. Luckily he was still asleep when I returned to sit by his bedside. My aunt popped out to the hospital canteen for a coffee and a few minutes later in walked a priest. I eyed him suspiciously and hoped he wasn't heading towards my Dad. He was. He introduced himself and started asking lots of questions; about my Dad, about me, my Mum, Dad's background. Normally I could field personal questions, and would have no problem refusing to answer, but I was emotionally weak at this point and compliantly answered his questions. I realised that we were right next to my Dad's bed and anxious that my Dad might wake up, I asked the priest to talk in the tiny office. He wanted to says some prayers over Dad. He said he had visited my Dad days ago and that Dad found comfort in prayer. Hmm, this didn't really sound like Dad and I didn't really believe the priest, I just wasn't thinking straight. I told the priest to wait to speak to my Aunt and to see what she said.

A few minute later my Aunt was back and delighted to see the priest. She didn't hesitate when the priest suggested saying some prayers. Well, if she was sure that my Dad wouldn't mind, then I could hardly object at the point. My aunt stood on one side of my Dad's bed. I sat on the other side with the priest standing next to me. Dad was still asleep.

I'd guess that the priest was approaching his 50's, and he had a serious nature about him. He began his prayers. Little did I realise that he was giving my Dad the Last Rites. The horror of this realisation washed over me. Shit!! Fuck!! This is serious!! I admit, I was scared. The priest continued his prayers, leaning over my Dad. Dad has been asleep all afternoon, but he chose this point to wake up! Fuck, fuck, fuck! On went my stupid big smile again. Dad looked from me, to my Aunt and back again. His blue eyes wide open. "Where's Irene?", he whispered. Irene is my Dad's girlfriend. "She'll be here tomorrow", replied my Aunt. I kept on smiling, nodding reassuringly at my Dad and overwhelmed by the surreality of it all. The priest put the Sacrament ( I think that is what it's called) into my Dad's hand. It's the bread that is normally given out in communion. Dad held it. The priest made the sign of the cross and my Dad raised his hand and weakly did the same. The priest was still praying. I was praying for him to stop. I can't remember if my Dad had his hearing aid on or not, but finally the priest ended his words and said "If there's anything you need or your Dad gets worse....". Shut up!! What if my Dad hears you talking like that?! I stopped the priest mid sentence and struck him in the ribs with my elbow. It was an instinctive reaction. I really couldn't help it. I didn't want any negative words around my Dad. The priest took the hint and said his goodbyes. Thank God.

I was probably being very selfish throughout all this. Overtaken by my own feelings and trying to protect my Dad. He may have been happy with all this, and pleased to see the priest.

"What was his name?", my Dad enquired. "Oh that's Father Smith, he was just doing his rounds on the ward visiting all the patients and stopped by you as well." I lied again.


You'd think that being raised a Catholic, going to mass each week until I was about 15, going to Catholic schools and even a convent, I wouldn't have reacted so strongly to the priest's arrival. However, all that is so long ago now. I haven't actively rejected Catholicism but I certainly haven't actively participated in it in recent year.

However, whilst in Belfast visiting my Dad I found myself spending a lot of time in the hospital church. I found it quite by accident. Although Dad's ward was on the ground floor the canteen was on the 5th. There were 4 big lifts that must have held about 20 people in each one. After having some lunch I really didn't want to wait for a lift or be confined in a space with a lot of people. I think I just wanted to be on my own. I decided to take the stairs back down to the ground floor. However I didn't count the floors properly on the way down and ended up on the wrong floor. I looked at the empty corridor and found a sign to the hospital chapel. I was drawn in. It was empty. I took a seat in at the front and sat and cried and cried.








I noticed a book on the table and opened it up. It was a note book where people put in their letters to God. There was a pen lying next to it and I wrote my message to God.







"Dear God, I know we don't speak very often but could you please look after my Dad and give him strength. Thank you xxx"



I started to talk out loud to God. I pleaded with him to make Dad well. Asked him why he was doing this to my Dad? I spoke to my Dad's parents and to his Aunts, telling them to watch over him. I got a bit angry with God, demanded that he make my Dad better again.



I visited that chapel at least once a day sometimes 2 or 3 times. It was a place where I could be alone, cry, talk out loud to....well to myself really I guess. I hoped that my words weren't falling on deaf ears but I couldn't help but wonder.



The day before my Dad died I had gone into the hospital early in the morning. The doctors were taking the breathing tube out, which he so, so hated. It wasn't doing all his breathing for him, but it was assisting him. The Doctor said it could be a tricky moment so it wouldn't do any harm to be nearby. As I sat in the corridor outside his ward (he was now in the Critical Treatment ward) I saw a priest walk in. A different priest this time. I almost jumped up and said "You aren't going in to see my Dad are you?" but before the words formed in my mouth the priest was through the door. About 10 minutes later he came out into the corridor. Then I asked him "Have you just been in to see my Dad?" This priest was younger with a friendly smile.



"Yes, I just popped in to say some prayers with him."



"If you don't mind can you speak to me first before you go in again? He had the Last Rights last week and I don't want to worry him with priests turning up at his bedside as it might make him think something is wrong." Who was I kidding, there was little I could do to protect my Dad at this point.



The priest agreed and said that Dad had received all the prayers he needed to and that the priest had 'done their job'. He wasn't being casual about it when he said that, more just reassuring me that they needn't see Dad again if that was my wish.



I was a bit torn really. I didn't want to deny my Dad anything, but at the same time wanted to protect him.



After my Dad died and I was back at his home in Londonderry I still went into a church frequently. I visited his local one which was a minutes walk away from where he had lived. My Aunt had said that he used to go there from time to time. If I had known in which pew he sat on I would have sat there. Instead I lit candles for him and said my own type of prayer.

Speaking to my Aunt it seems my Dad was more spiritual than a strict Catholic. He analysed religion, trying to see where it fit in with his life I guess.



No doubt I will be mentioning the church again in future posts, the funeral is one example.

My beliefs are undefined really. I do believe in an after life of some sort, though must admit the passing of my Dad has made me doubt this at times. I talk out loud to him and he just isn't there.

Today was particularly hard. Even though we lived so far apart I would always ring my Dad twice a week. 6pm on Wednesdays and 11am on Sunday. I dreamt of him last night and woke up thinking of him, knowing that I couldn't hear his voice again. Oh how I wished I had made videos and taken more photos. My Dad was very camera shy, so I'm not sure how that would have gone! I have a few seconds of video of him from when I visited him in November when I filmed my walk into the hospital and into his room. I also have a little electronic voice recorder that he had made some reminders on.



Grieving is a funny old thing. Just when I think I am doing ok, I'm not. It's quite confusing.