Lovely Mans father has cancer. It’s not treatable and despite being told this he has been fighting it since his diagnosis.
I’m not sure how I would take someone telling me that I had terminal cancer, but I would hope that instead of just going about my daily routine, that I would bugger off on a cruise, or throw a huge farewell party for my family and friends.
But you just don’t know.
Gaga, as our daughter calls him, has been stubborn to the last – only last week he drove himself to my house and I dropped him at the cancer clinic for his weekly check up, but this week he had deteriorated so quickly that he could hardly walk. His pain was so bad that he really didn’t know what to do with himself, and we rushed him into the hospice.
The hospice is a beautiful place, with kind nurses and exceptional doctors. He sadly won’t come out of here, but it’s such a lovely way for him to spend his last days.
He’s very tired, but despite this has a beautiful view that he enjoys daily. He loves nature and it’s nice to know that he can enjoy something he loves in his final days.
So is it really a sad day? He’s had a good life, lived to a good age, he’s had (and still has) some time to say any goodbyes that he wants to. He’s out of pain for the most part, and when he does feel pain, a nurse is on hand to deal with it quickly, efficiently and most importantly, with care and kindness.
I think perhaps it’s the way I’d like to go when my time comes.