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A father who was rarely there leaves a void that’s all the more difficult to fill

Losing a loved one is always difficult – and can be even more complicated when you were never quite able to get close to them, writes Rebecca Levingston.

Aug 17, 2022, updated Aug 17, 2022
Memories are hard to cling to when they were so few and far between. (Photo: Supplied)

Memories are hard to cling to when they were so few and far between. (Photo: Supplied)

My father-in-law died last Sunday. His name was Danie.

His life was complicated. His death too.

He used to drive a truck that he started with a butter knife. He smelt like tobacco and tea.
When he was told his cancer was terminal, he never stopped smoking. His last vice, his final pleasure was just another thing he couldn’t quit.

Danie’s life wasn’t easy.

A stint in Boggo Road jail. Addiction. Self-sabotage and separation. I feel heart broken for my husband, Danie’s eldest son. He looks like him. Both dark-haired and dark-eyed. Smart, shy and gentle. In the end, Danie was skin and bone. Lung cancer shrunk his muscles and bent his frame. It was shocking to watch him slip away.

When I first met Danie, he was strong.

A builder, a drummer and a father.

I wish his life was filled up by good people and pathways, but something always led him to a place where he was hard to find. Eventually he never came back.

When he was well, Danie was magical. Rhythmical. He tapped out beats with his hands and his speech. Special sounds to emphasise whatever point he was making. His gestures had a recognisable physical flourish, whether he was flicking his hair or swinging drumsticks. He was generous and never overcomplicated things or thoughts.

A cigarette was never far from his lips. A strong cup of tea always in his kitchen. He loved dogs and they faithfully adored him. He didn’t drink. Drugs were his poison. And they stole him away from a life that should have been full of beauty.

He knew my sons, his only grandsons, but not in the way that a grandfather might. My boys were intrigued by a grandad who played guitar, used colourful language and disappeared. A few months before he died, Danie became a grandfather again. His daughter had a daughter and I watched him meet her for the first time. A flash of pure joy on his sunken face. I felt sad at such a precious moment, because I knew he’d soon be gone.

Now, all we have are memories. Mixed emotions. I guess we all choose the moments to hang on to and those to forget. It will be hardest for those who were closest to him to forgive. How complicated grief and love can be.

Dark humour helps.

When Danie telephoned from his bed in palliative care and my husband asked gently “Where you at Father? He responded without hesitation, “I’m at footy training, where do you think?”

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When my husband asked if he’d like to go anywhere or do anything special in his final weeks, Danie’s response was swift and ironic “What are you – the Make a Wish foundation?”

We laughed, because sometimes that’s all you can do.

Instead of a final trip to see the ocean, he brought him more morphine. Bottles by his bedside. His only hope for relief.

The last time I sat with Danie in his boatshed, his hands and feet were swollen. His cough was heavy and unsatisfying. He couldn’t get comfortable lying or sitting. The tumour in his chest was winning. A mass of pain that was slowly killing my father-in-law.

I watched him screw the top off his morphine bottle with his left hand and and draw up the clear liquid in a syringe. He squirted it directly into his mouth. Ten millilitres for a few hours of relief.

I asked him what it tasted like. Bitter he said. But ok. Soon after he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He told me he didn’t have any regrets. I can’t believe that’s true.

But I’ll be forever grateful because I got the best of him. His eldest son, my husband. His grandsons, my boys. I wish his life had been different. Oh Danie boy.

 

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