I sit beside his bed, watching, waiting.
I’m his firstborn, only daughter. Our bond, unshakeable, immense, complex. “No-one loves me as much as
you, Dad”. “Yes…that's true”.
He says I was difficult at times. I would stand up and shake the bars of my cot until I received his attention. He was difficult too!
I remember his bear hugs. I would stand on my bed, enveloped in his broad chest and he would squeeze me tight. I felt safe. Loved.
He had a stutter. It was most prevalent when he was upset or angry. I’ve always felt protective when he struggled to say what he wanted.
Sent to boarding school at a young age. Is that when the stutter began? Or was it the bullying perpetrated by an older brother?
Singing was his solace. A deep, rich baritone. No stutter when he sang in choirs, only joy. Panis Angelicus, Handels Messiah, Mozart, Albinoni, a rich heritage of music enriched his life, and mine.
I will miss his voice.
And his hands.
Sturdy, fleshy, skilled. A master craftsman, an engraver, a leather craft tool maker. Meticulous and patient. A smoky workshop, he liked his nicotine, moments we would spend talking, or not. The quiet was comfortable with my father.
83 years of life. A short time really. What did he learn?
To be creative every day. To forgive. To long suffer the injustices and appreciate the birds, the simple joys — the monarch butterfly in the back garden, the blackbird perched on the wooden rail each morning, the satisfaction of completing a task, solitude, the mountains.
“Will you come and visit me…when you're gone?” “Yes, in the birds!”
I sit here in the hospital stroking his head, watching his breath, holding his hands…it’s like being with a newborn. I feel so much love, compassion, and fierce protection.
It’s hard work to die. Like a birth. Breathing. Labouring. The body shutting down. An opening to something else? My father is steadfast. He doesn't want to cause a bother. But I am with him. I watch him. I measure his breaths, I watch the small flutter of pulse in his neck. I am vigilant. I will be here when his labour ends. This is my work and my privilege.
My father deserves to leave this life with immense gentle kindness and respect for the giant of a man he has been.
My beautiful father Noel Leopold Kelly died on August 31st, 2020