A lot of my day has been spent responding to some of the lovely messages I've received on Twitter after posting about my Dad, who died on Sunday evening.
https://twitter.com/David_Ephgrave/status/1132945034637189122
It's too early for me to get a handle on it. The past couple of months - the past few years, really - have been overshadowed with the many twists and turns that went with navigating my dad's illness, which became particularly tough once he came home from hospital for the last time. For those last few weeks, his house was a hive of activity with carers, physios and occupational therapists constantly coming and going - along with endless Amazon Prime deliveries of the bits and pieces I felt would help make him comfortable - while my dad essentially remained immovable in bed. Now, I look in via the doorbell camera - because we live in a dystopian George Orwell-like future - and it's all silent.
The response to my tweet in tribute to my lovely Dad (for he was) has been overwhelming - and even though he'd often ignore what you said and talk over you without hearing it, I think he would have been chuffed if he knew. Amongst the people interacting were many of the comedians he used to enjoy watching at Mostly Comedy, which adds to the specialness.
One thing my mind keeps returning to is his last few moments. I looked in on him via Alexa after the carer had called me and then the ambulance, and at that point, he was still alive and being checked over by the paramedics, yet by the time I'd arrived he had gone. I hope he wasn't scared or anxious. He'd been through so much lately that maybe it was a relief. Whatever he thought, he's left a huge gaping hole in my life that will never be filled. God bless you, Dad. You're a legend.
https://twitter.com/David_Ephgrave/status/1132945034637189122
It's too early for me to get a handle on it. The past couple of months - the past few years, really - have been overshadowed with the many twists and turns that went with navigating my dad's illness, which became particularly tough once he came home from hospital for the last time. For those last few weeks, his house was a hive of activity with carers, physios and occupational therapists constantly coming and going - along with endless Amazon Prime deliveries of the bits and pieces I felt would help make him comfortable - while my dad essentially remained immovable in bed. Now, I look in via the doorbell camera - because we live in a dystopian George Orwell-like future - and it's all silent.
The response to my tweet in tribute to my lovely Dad (for he was) has been overwhelming - and even though he'd often ignore what you said and talk over you without hearing it, I think he would have been chuffed if he knew. Amongst the people interacting were many of the comedians he used to enjoy watching at Mostly Comedy, which adds to the specialness.
One thing my mind keeps returning to is his last few moments. I looked in on him via Alexa after the carer had called me and then the ambulance, and at that point, he was still alive and being checked over by the paramedics, yet by the time I'd arrived he had gone. I hope he wasn't scared or anxious. He'd been through so much lately that maybe it was a relief. Whatever he thought, he's left a huge gaping hole in my life that will never be filled. God bless you, Dad. You're a legend.