In and out of Cyprus, celebrations and sadness

 I last posted on this blog nearly three months ago. I was planning to write on Christmas Eve, two months later, as I have done in previous years. I was going to say what an awesome year we had as a family, notwithstanding the increasingly depressing international news, with wars, famine, rampant inflation and generally worrying outlook. 

I was going to mention the family gathering that took me back to the UK near the end of November, to celebrate my father's 90th birthday. He and his wife of 18 years had settled well into a 'retirement village' apartment, and had made several friends there. On his actual birthday, my sister and my father's sister came for the day and we all went out to lunch. 

The following day my father was very pleased to win a game of Settlers of Catan, quite resoundingly. 

Physically he was increasingly frail, needing oxygen for 15 hours out of every 24. But his mind was as strong as ever, and he was in excellent spirits. His wife had organised a lunch party for the family, and he gave a positive, welcoming speech at the beginning, wearing a banner provided by his step-granddaughters, saying '90 and fabulous'. 

When I flew back to Cyprus, early in December, he was looking forward to Christmas, to seeing the extended family again, and to a couple of significant family events that should take place in 2023.

So it was a terrible shock to us, and to so many people who loved him, when he died a few days before Christmas. He had a virus (not Covid) and had been tired and a bit short of breath; by then he was on oxygen all the time, but he had been watching the World Cup final and there was no indication that he would not survive the night. 

At ninety, with three life-threatening health conditions, we knew he wouldn't have many more years - and he would have hated to become bed-ridden, or completely dependent. From his point of view it was a good time and a good way to go, in his own bed rather than hospital, without suffering from any painful or debilitating final illness. 

From our point of view, it would never have been a good time. 

Perhaps that's inevitable; when someone is such a positive, generous and encouraging person, their passing leaves a huge hole in the lives of those around them.  

My father was an active person, even in his last decade when he started to have physical limitations. He wrote an intermittent blog about living with heart failure, which he last updated just over two years ago when he was still doing a fair bit of gardening. He also published his memoirs just over five years ago, and a dystopian novel nearly three years ago. 

I'm so thankful I spent four days with him in the summer, and nearly a week for his birthday celebrations. I'm thankful he was able to attend all three of his grandsons' weddings, and that my grandchildren knew and loved him, and are old enough that they will probably remember him. I'm also thankful that we have so many good memories; that he was such a good father, grandfather and great-grandfather.

The funeral was last week, well-planned and organised by one of my brothers and one of my step-brothers. We sang three of my father's favourite hymns, and my brother gave a moving eulogy that was poignant, and also inspiring. He left us with a wonderful image of our dad, knocking St Peter's croquet ball off a heavenly lawn. There were many tears, but there were a few smiles, too. We know our father is now walking without difficulty, singing as he did when he was younger, reunited with so many beloved relatives and friends who left this world before he did. 

But we still miss him. 

I wrote about losing my mother nine-and-a-half years earlier. That was hard, in a way I hadn't entirely foreseen. Losing my other parent is just as hard, despite there being so much to be thankful for, and it still feels raw a month later.