Jake's story: Talking to my dad about dying

About seven months ago, I sat myself down beside my dad on a sizeable balcony overlooking London.

Out of context, it was a really lovely setting; the sun shining on a May afternoon. But patting my dad’s far-too-thin knee in greeting and seeing him sat in his wheelchair, aged 56, was enough to remind me of where we really were.

We sat in silence for a moment, looking out over the hospital balcony.

Days before, my dad’s exceptional consultant had informed us that after five years of battling aggressive head and neck cancer with chemo, radiotherapy, a life-changing surgery and yet more treatment, the cancer was spreading rapidly and there was nothing left to be done.

He had weeks left.

I was there to pick him up and bring him home for what we knew would be the final time.

This was the first time I’d seen him since he and my mum told my two siblings and I the news over FaceTime from the hospital. What can you even say?

“Are you feeling emotional, dad?”

It sounds like a stupid question – and it probably was. But he had been so unwell and in so much pain for the weeks leading up to this that we had barely discussed anything beyond his physical state.

He nodded. And then he cried.

One of the first things he said was that his instinct, as a father, was to protect me, and that he didn’t want to burden me.

I told him that being open with me, telling me how he felt and letting me support him however I could, was in not only his best interests, but mine too.

What transpired was a lengthy talk that will stay with me forever. He told me, among many things, that he wasn’t scared to die; he was just sad to be leaving us – his family – behind.

I told him his spirit would outlive him, and give us the ability to endure after his loss. It has.

My dad having the strength to open up gave me the opportunity to return the favour and tell him things that I thought I’d only be able to say in his eulogy, because it would be too deep and painful to say to his face.

That hour was absolutely gut-wrenching. Heartbreaking. And beautiful. I cherish it every day.

Over the next couple of weeks, after a brief stint at home, he became increasingly ill and uncomfortable, until a hospice became the only viable option.

After he’d made that decision (if you can call it that), I held his hand and asked him if there was anything left that he wanted to say. He paused and thought.

“I think I’ve said everything I needed to,” he said, adding he loved us and knew we’d all look after each other.

“What about you?”

I said I felt the same, though I wasn't certain.

Four days later, minutes after he had died, I laid beside his body on the hospice bed and contemplated saying one last goodbye. I started to speak, but it felt forced.

Instead, I kept silent and felt his presence for the last time. That was all I needed.

It’s really surprised me, how important the words we said to each other were. My dad, largely, was the embodiment of “actions speak louder than words”. He was present, he was caring, he was affectionate and he put his loved ones before all else, always.

We always had a seamless father/son relationship. Yet, if we hadn’t actually sat down and told each other how we felt on that balcony, I think I’d be wishing we had. He gave me that. And so how lucky am I?

Loss is hard, but if my dad wasn’t as open as he was, it would have somehow been even harder.

Remembering that has served me well through the grief, when at times it’s been more tempting to tell people “I’m alright” rather than what I’m really feeling. I go to therapy, I speak to my partner, my family and my friends when I need to - however challenging I might find it.

And it will help me through whatever else is to come. It’s one of the many gifts he gave me.

Time moves differently when you lose someone. It’s been about seven months since my dad died, but I feel like I haven’t seen him in years.

My grief has changed a lot over this brief time. I think what started as a very simple mourning period where I thought only of my dad and how much I missed him has evolved into something more complex, deeper – and, truthfully, more self-absorbed.

“What are we all doing here? What’s the point of this? Where is the meaning?”

I’m a reasonably deep thinker. I’d pondered these questions before. But watching my dad go through what at times must have felt like torture for five years in the hope of surviving, only to die anyway, has left me feeling like I’m somehow owed answers.

It feels like the surreal end of an obscure foreign film; okay, I sort of got parts of it, but why did it end like that? What is the message?

There’s no director to ask – not as far as I’m concerned, anyway.

If there is, they're not taking questions on a promotional tour. The film is down to interpretation and there are no wrong answers. Don’t you hate that?

I remember reading ‘The Denial of Death’ by Ernest Becker during university (in a bid to impress others more than anything else, I’d imagine – most of it went over my head!)

One thing that has miraculously stuck with me was Becker’s theory – I’m paraphrasing – that people go insane without living in a bit of a delusion.

They have to give themselves a purpose to fulfil, even if in the grand scheme of things, it's inconsequential – something that helps them – well, deny death; be it for religion or money, community work or criminal activity, good or evil.

One of my dad’s closest friends, during the prayers that came after his death, suggested we all do our best to “Be a Wol” (my dad was called Warren – Wol his nickname).

I can’t Be a Wol. The bar is too high. Even writing this is more self-indulgent than anything my dad ever did; he was too busy being everything his family needed to stop and consider the meaning of it all.

But I can be someone who learnt from him. I can try to be a good son, a good brother, a good husband, a good friend and eventually, a good dad.

I can try to be the comforting presence for the people in my life that he was for all of us. I can take all of the wonderful qualities he had and emulate them the best I can, and pass them on to those who didn’t know him; a way of keeping him going.

I can be Something Resembling a Wol.

Maybe that can be my purpose. It will take a lot of work; but I’ll give it my all.