Wednesday, 23 October 2013

Rest in peace, daddy

This morning the doctors switched off the machines and my dad will now never wake up again. It was the end of the road, there was nothing more to do and his body was too damaged from lack of oxygen and every possible drug the doctors could find in their attempts to save him.

It feels like Friday was weeks ago. We've spent most of the time at the hospital seeing how things kept going back and forth. Every good piece of news about a small progress was followed by bad news some hours or a night later. At two points we were warned that he might not survive what had to be done and both times he stayed with us. But in the end, despite a -- against all odds -- successful attempt to open him up again, something happened last night and his circulation never really got better, depriving his body and not least his brain of oxygen at the same time as his organs were getting worn down from the ordeal. The doctors informed us early this morning that there was nothing more they could do, only shorten the mental torture of waiting and getting nothing by bad news getting worse and worse by taking the decision to switch off the machines. There was nothing left. At that point dad had been heavily sedated since the weekend and thus not feeling anything when his breathing stopped in his sleep.

I still can't really grasp the fact that he's dead, he's never coming back. It's been such a roller-coaster ride from better to worse to better to worse since that phone call on saturday morning. I just want to sleep and wake up, finding it was just a bad dream. When dad first got ill some years ago it was a wakeup call making me realise my parents are mortals and they aren't getting younger, but it still felt like something to worry about first many years into the future: dad is still just 72. That's no age today. It's just so not right that he, who was so active and never smoked or was a couch potato, got so ill to begin with. Others his age are still vital and full of energy.

No, in a way I don't think this will really hit me until the funeral. Right now it's all just confusion with a day that seem like every other day if I look out the window or switch on the computer/telly or hug the cats -- but then again it isn't. It's a horrible day that's changed something forever. And it can't be rewound or undone.

It's unreal and horrible and so hard to get into my head.

On a practical note, I just wanted to say thank you to all of you who have written and a special thanks to Allie (I've read it, but please forgive that I not yet feel well enough to write you back -- I will soon). I'll take some time off now, which means I'll probably read blog comments and e-mails at some point, but will probably not write back in my upset state. Perhaps I'll read blogs and pin just to get my mind of things, but I won't be very mentally present so please bare with me. Soon we'll need to take care of the practicalities and it might deepen my sorrow as it really sinks in. Writing helps me a lot, but not all is suitable for a blog, especially now before everyone has been informed (my aunt is informed, my poor aunt who lost her father in the 50's, her sister in cancer in the 60's, her mother in the 70's, her husband a few years ago followed by the death of a dear neighbour and now her baby brother too).

I don't know what to say or do. Right now I just want to go to sleep and wake up and everything will be back to normal. But I know it won't.


  1. So sorry to read of your loss, Kristina... I continue to pray that your family will have all the support and caring you need. Accept all the help you can from friends and neighbors, they can be be a great strength and anchor!

  2. Oh, I am so very sad to hear this news. The time we spend is always so brief. Do what you need to take the space to grieve and remember. Always remember. You obviously loved your father very much and while that makes it harder to bear, it also makes his memory live on, for those we love and remember are never really gone from us. I don't have the words to make it all better, but know that I am thinking of you on the other side of the world and wishing you peace in your heart. I hope that you can slowly find the 'something good' in every day again. Erin

  3. I am so very sorry that you lost your Dad. I wish I could give you a hug, but please know you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. And it will get better. I know it doesn't seem like it ever could, but it will. Just keep believing that.

  4. En stor kram till dig. Det är sant att livet inte kommer att vara detsamma mer, men du kommer att överleva. Din pappa kommer att leva i dina minnen, först kanske sorgliga om sjukdom och lidande, men sedan kommer de vackra och positiva minnena att överväga. Så var det för mig, när jag förlorade mina föräldrar, och jag tror att du kommer att uppleva detsamma. Sorgen och saknaden gör ont, det är naturligt. Kom ihåg att äta ordenligt, det är viktigt för att orka. Milka

  5. Sad news. I'm so sorry that you lost your Dad. You are in my thoughts in these stormy days of your life. All my best, Anna


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