My father is no more… My head knows it is better this way, but my heart doesn’t understand it (yet). He took a piece of my heart with him.
I lie awake. It’s three in the morning as I write this, I need to get it out. It was an intense week. The app group of my mother, sister and me is very appropriately called ‘Girls from De Ruijter’. Has something to do with an old joke from my husband. But that’s us: the girls from De Ruijter. And we had frequent contact with each other about De Ruijter, because he could not do so himself.
My father was 56 years old when he was diagnosed with MS and then some pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Like that strange ‘foot drop’ of his during our holiday in Cyprus, in honor of my parents’ 30th wedding anniversary.
From then on, he surrendered piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left to surrender. My father was still there, but then again not. He spent his last ten years confined to his wheelchair, completely dependent on care. He was a handy, very strong and proud man and was never able to accept his decline. He watched with pain in his heart as my mother – now also in her 70s – climbed onto the roof to remove the leaves that were blocking the drain pipe. Plus all those other things he thought he should be doing. And my mother in turn had to admit with pain in her heart that after twenty years, care at home was no longer possible. Despite all the aids and renovations. She needed to ‘retire’ at the age of 75.
They both had to get used to the nursing home, where they did not blow dry my father’s feet after washing them, as my mother did. The nursing home also had to get used to having such a care-intensive resident. Things didn’t go as they should right away and my mother just continued to care. Even gave a ‘masterclass’ on the use of medical devices. With foresight, she had managed to ensure that my father could stay in their home village – within walking distance – in the former retirement home, in one of the two apartments on the ground floor. This way he didn’t have to maneuver his wheelchair in the small elevator with difficulty. Later it turned out that he never left his room, because it rapidly became too noisy and busy for him outside.
Last Sunday, November 1, we read the care report from the night before in our Girls from De Ruijter app, of which my mother had shared a screenshot. Little pain, alert and talkative. Those were reports that made us happy. But how quickly everything can change… that same day my father didn’t feel like getting out of bed and that had only happened once, in the week before. My mother thought he was very warm and in the evening he turned out to have a fever. She sensed that this was not good and she did not dare to leave him behind; my sister and I jumped in the car and stayed with our dad that night. We sent our mother home after a long day to get some rest. She slept from 1am to 3am…
Things did not go well, the fever remained and my father sank further and further as the week went on. All three of us felt that we didn’t want to leave him alone for another moment. My father was not much of a talker, but he had let us know – when the nursing home was locked for almost three months due to Covid – that he didn’t feel like living like this anymore and that his great fear was to have to die alone. It broke my heart. When he said this, we were not able to touch him, couldn’t even put an arm around him, let alone reassure him, because he was behind plexiglass and a microphone. The pain, anger and frustration I felt are indescribable and I will never forget…
We were also not allowed to visit on Father’s Day and given the circumstances, I feared that it would be our last Father’s Day… My father had stopped visiting everyone at home a long time ago; the ride in the wheelchair taxi was torture for his body, with all those bumps along the way. So Father’s Day became our shared birthday, with children and grandchildren at my parents home. My father was their only grandfather; my father-in-law died completely unexpected at the age of 46 from cardiac arrest and to my regret we never met.
So we took turns at my father’s bedside as much as possible. Sometimes I played his favorite music softly in the background, from my ‘Dad Music’ playlist. During the care he was given I saw in a flash his beautiful body, without the painful spots that bothered him so much and for which he needed a lot of pain relief. A heartbreaking image that stays with me. I would have loved so much for him and my boys to have played football together, for example.
In the end he could barely make himself understood, but my father heard everything. We told him everything we wanted to say.
Every time we took turns, we said goodbye to my father for ourselves. On Wednesday afternoon I told him that I had to go home for a while and that I would come back the next day. After my hospital appointment on Thursday morning I rushed back and when I stood next to his bed again I told him that his De Ruijter girls were complete again. It was almost as if he had been waiting for it. That afternoon, with all three of us at his bedside, he passed away. On November 5 at 3:55 PM he left us broken-hearted, but also grateful that his suffering was over.
Today is Informal Care Day. Every year on November 10, which also happens to be my parents’ wedding anniversary. Minus five days, they have been married for 54 years. My father thought my mother deserved a ribbon for all the care she surrounded him with. I can only agree and respect how she unconditionally chose my father.
We are still amazed at how everything falls together these days, as if it is all directed from above. We organized a beautiful farewell together with great unity. My sister selected the card and I designed the text, my niece cooked tasty and healthy food for us, my other niece will recite something, just like me. The classic white hearse was the choice of my eldest son, the youngest chose music, the bouquet consists of flowers from our three wedding bouquets (white orchids from my mother, white arum from my sister and white roses from me). My mother will recite a beautiful Blessing and my brother-in-law, who, like my father, did his military service, will attach my father’s ID to the coffin. The idea of eight white roses and a red rose as a final greeting for the coffin came from my husband.
In order to be able to share all of this at a later time with all the people who cannot be there due to the Covid measures, I am glad to know that my mother hired a professional photographer to capture everything for a physical album…
We are happy with our funeral director Angelique; she knows exactly where she is needed and takes care of us in a wonderful way.
The farewell is modest due to the circumstances with Covid, but very much according to our wishes and in the spirit of our father.
Our husband, father and grandfather.
Forever in our hearts.
November 11
Oh dad, on this beautiful windless and misty autumn day we said goodbye to you for the last time. A day with a smile and a tear. You went to your memorial place in style in a beautiful white classic, through the Autumnlane with its splendor of colors as on your funeral card. You have long since left for the most beautiful place there is, without pain and sadness.
As I read a poem about that, I knew you were smiling down at us with complete confidence that we will make it, because you know that we will be okay when we will see each other again. Say hello to all who came before you, especially to the father of my husband and brothers-in-law, whom they lost far too young.