"Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will."
(from 'Requiem' by R.L.Stevenson)
On a Monday morning 10 years ago today, in a quiet light-filled room in Noosa Hospital my dear husband took his last breath. It was just a gentle inhaling, nothing dramatic, made easier, I suppose, by the morphine meant (officially) to minimise his pain. He simply inhaled. And then he didn't exhale. That was all.
I looked up through the window to see, beyond a covered walkway, a pretty little grove of young ti-trees in an internal garden of the hospital. I'd sat there many times on previous hospitalisations that had ended less sadly. Just at that moment, two of our children came down that walkway. They'd driven up from the city as soon as I'd rung, coming to say their goodbyes. I like to think he waited as long as he could, and let go only once the kids were near enough to give me some comfort.
We all sat with him for quite a while. Some Mozart played softly - his favourite composer. I don't remember any of us crying too much. By then it was as much relief as loss. It had been a long, slow road - but an inevitable outcome with dementia. And really, we'd been luckier than many. He always knew us, lived at home till his last few days and could call on plenty of memories even as it became more and more difficult to express them.
Allen had squeezed into his 83 years several lives - including three families he'd created with three different women, all of us eventually becoming and remaining friends. In fact, I don't know anyone who had an unkind word to say about him. And no one whom he disliked enough to do more than make the subject of an amusing story. He had three young adult sons when I met him. But less than a year later, one of them died in a tragic accident. On the day of that funeral, we made a commitment to live the rest of our lives together. Life's too short to hold back, we decided.
By the time I met him, Allen had made a living for more than 30 years as a stage manager and then theatre director, working and touring Australia and New Zealand at a time when a life in theatre was an even more precarious profession than it is now. But he redefined himself to follow me around wherever I might work - first becoming an ABC scriptwriter and all-round theatre jobber (actor, director, playwright, theatre manager) in Tasmania, then moving into arts management with the Australian National Choral Association and other groups in Queensland. Coming with me to London on a Fellowship year in the 1990s was an easier assignment - even if the Welsh Choir he accompanied on a European tour (a group destined to travel to Australia the following year) caused a bit of a stir and no end of paperwork when one of the elderly choristers expired while crossing the Channel. When I started doing overseas consultancy work on development projects, Allen confidently ran our various households, not only in Queensland but also in the Philippines and Laos for several years each and sometimes from hotel rooms for months at a time. His letters to friends and the stories he wrote about some of his own experiences in these places never failed to amuse - for example, one about a colonoscopy he had in a Manila hospital while lying on a guerney whose wheels kept failing to lock in place. He also had two hospitalisations in Thailand while we lived in Laos, quite enjoying being fussed over by caring nurses and always coming away with great stories.Learning to live meaningfully without Allen has been much harder for me than being his caregiver was in his final years. But even though he's not here to share the rest of my life, I'll be better able to deal with whatever life throws at me because of what I learned from how he lived his.
3 comments:
A wonderful tribute to a wonderful man who also happened to be my dad xxxx
Zoe, I should have included mention of my first 'date' with Dad. He invited me to come up to see the Fort Nelson place (Dorney House) where he was renting an annex flat (the place is now a museum). I said I couldn't because I had my daughter that weekend. Without a minute's hesitation he said "Well why can't you bring her?" We had a lovely visit all afternoon, walking through the bush, and he barbecued some dinner for us on a little hibachi grill. Then we talked for hours and hours while you slept on the couch. This man cooks for me and he accepts that my daughter is the most important thing in my life. I didn't realise it yet, but I think he passed the test that day.
What a beautiful Tribute to your Beloved. A very full Life indeed packed in! Learning to Live meaningfully and with intention is a daily Lifelong Journey, often made easier by what we can and do Learn from those in our Orbit.
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