I Thought I Was Prepared…

Seven years ago, chaos yanked our lives off their axis. My phone rang at 1 a.m. I ignored it, stubbornly clinging to sleep. The call broke through my “do not disturb” setting a second time. Before I could even reach for my phone, my husband’s cell started ringing. That’s when I knew. Bad news was coming. But it wasn’t just bad—it was shattering. My sister’s voice, raw and broken, wailed through the phone speaker, “She’s gone! She’s gone, Mum is gone.” I collapsed to the floor and the world went dark.

My mum was the pillar of our household. She was the Rock of Gibraltar, not just for us but for her extended family. She and my dad were also prominent members of their local communities.

Somehow, following her unexpected departure from earth, we kept going. You see, I still struggle to refer to it as death, because death has a note of finality. Yes, I know she’s gone, but I still believe I can “feel” her and talk to her in my heart. So, in my mind, if I call it death, I seal that door of communication forever. Therefore, I will continue to refer to it as her departure from earth to the great beyond.

In any case, we held each other up. My siblings and I circled around my dad, tighter than ever. He’d lost his partner of over fifty years.

Dad surprised no one with his resilience. He filled his days with philanthropy and friends. He traveled across continents to see his children and grandkids, his calendar was always full, his social life was more active than mine, and his spirit somehow remained undimmed. He had his struggles too; some days were better than others, but he managed to keep going.

I knew my dad was getting older. I knew, in the abstract way we all do, that one day he’d be gone; that we all would. I thought I was preparing myself. I thought I’d be ready when the time came. But when “the” call eventually came, barely an hour after I’d spoken to him, that he was gone, all my so-called preparation evaporated like smoke.

First came numbness, the disbelief and shock. Then came the ache of knowing how close I was to seeing him, that he was supposed to arrive at our home in 48 hours; the ache of telling his grandsons, who had prepared everything for Grandpa and made plans for what they would do together, that he was gone. The ache of asking them to send video messages to him on what happened to be his last day on earth, only to tell them, on their return from school, that he was no longer with us.

Then the guilt followed: maybe I should’ve booked his ticket earlier; maybe I should have changed his flight earlier; maybe I should’ve gone to Nigeria instead of London. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The last time I spoke to Dad, an hour before his passing, he told me he’d sent for the local food items my kids loved, so he could bring them with him on his trip. As usual, I’d gone full “Margaret Thatcher – Iron Lady” on him, rattling off a list of how to prepare for the trip—types of clothes to pack, pre-departure medical check, transportation to the airport, etc. He just kept smiling through the phone and thanking me. I can picture him now, snickering as I made him repeat the to-do list. I didn’t know that my “I’ll talk to you later, Dad” would never materialize. As he always did, he told me not to worry so much.

Now, I find myself reaching for his pictures, the ones cataloguing his activities in his later years: one of him with my family as my husband and I completed a 5K Obstacle Foam Run in memory of my mum, there’s another one of him intently listening to Rachel Maddow, his favorite political commentator. Then, a snapshot of the text exchanged between me and my husband when Dad accidentally kicked my expensive Japanese antique tea set while he was watching one of the football matches for the World Cup soccer competition. There was one of his first experience of snow and freezing temperatures, and another one of him participating in our summer picnic.

I had his favorite flowers ready for this visit, plus carefully selected and strategically placed outdoor chairs, knowing he loved gardening. My husband had picked out his sunglasses; Dad loved wearing baseball caps and shades, but my husband had replaced the baseball cap with a sunhat fitted with two solar-powered mini fans. Even I found them really cool. We were ready for his visit. But it wasn’t meant to be.

As a coach and a physician, I tell people to acknowledge their feelings—the "Name-it-to-Tame-it" concept. But what do you do when your own feelings make no sense? When you know, logically, that guilt is pointless, but you feel it anyway. When you wish for what you know will never happen.

I don’t have any lessons to teach here. This isn’t advice. These are just my reflections, a journal entry really, as I try to process losing a man I’ve known and loved for over fifty years.

Part of me is glad that he’s with Mum again. I hope they’ve found peace together, wherever they are.

Grief doesn’t follow a formula. There’s no recipe. Whatever helps you survive the pain, as long as it isn’t harming you or others, is fair game.

Me? I’m forcing myself to eat, and to eat well. I’m honoring the man who taught me to love plants by erecting a memorial garden for him, for Mum and for my father-in-law. I can’t seem to sit still: I am restless; obsessively cleaning the house and gardening till late hours.

My DIY woodworking has crept up several notches. Are these healthy or unhealthy? I honestly don’t know. Diversion or aversion of thoughts? I have no idea.

I just hope the pain will soften with time, and the tears will eventually dry. I’m still getting used to the word orphan, though I’m not sure I ever will.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own grief, there’s no right way through it. It just is. I’m still figuring it out too.

Mum and Dad, I hope you’re together and at peace and I hope we’re making you proud. We will hold and support one another and keep your legacies.

Rest in peace and rest in love, Dad and Mum. You will forever remain in our hearts.