Letter to Phil

Dear Phil,

This morning I went to Mum's, as usual, but you weren't there. The bed was still in the lounge room, as usual, but you weren't in it. When Mum answered the door she was sad, as usual, but she didn't have to bring me up to date on what kind of a night you'd had. We both knew that, finally, you were at peace.

After we'd had a cup of coffee, Vera and I slowly and carefully put the lounge room back into place. We opened the windows, put fresh flowers around the room and made a little floral centrepiece with burning candles for the dining table. We could feel your energy all around us, but this time we had you in a fresh, bright, living room and not in a sick room.

We talked about you all the time - were your ears burning? This afternoon it was decided to celebrate your life on Monday at Regina Caeli church. Mum got your clothes ready - your favourite black jeans, your flanalette shirt, your best thongs and your Makita cap. She bought you a new one because the one you always wore is a bit grotty. And .... you know the beanie I knitted for you - the one I finished yesterday? -well you're taking that with you too.

Phil, I want to think about you, but every time I do, I start to cry, so I stop myself. I just feel so sad. All I seem to remember is your little body on the bed and how much you suffered, how quickly you deteriorated - things would literally change over 24 hours.

I'm wishing that I had been with you when you took your last breath. I know we were all in the room with you but we had no idea you were getting ready to leave. I know the nurse had told us that it wouldn't be much longer, but she'd been saying that for days.

So after we turned you onto your side - facing the window, away from us -  Mum sat down to read, I picked up my knitting (this time I'm making a scarf for a friend's daughter), Vera and Deb were flicking through a magazine and talking about the fashions at the Royal wedding and Matt and Rose were watching TV.

Mum commented to me that your breathing was quite laboured and I agreed, but as I said to her, that's what you'd been doing all morning. For some reason I stopped knitting and looked over to you. I focussed on your shoulder, looking for the rise and fall of your breathing. There didn't seem to be any, but I told myself that you were so weak that obviously your breathing was too.

Still I wanted to check. I walked around the bed to see you - and you looked different. You weren't moving - but that was because you had taken a deep breath and had not yet exhaled - right? I waited several seconds for you to exhale that breath Phil. But there was no breath - you had gone.

You left silently and privately. Was that because you didn't want to upset Mum? Was it because you didn't want a fuss - you hated being fussed over. But I wouldn't have fussed Phil. I would have just held your hand, stoked your lovely face - gaunt and thin as it was - and thanked you for the honour and the privilege of looking after you for the last seven weeks of your life. I would have wished you well on your journey and thanked God and the angels for finally releasing you from your pain.

I did that anyway Phil. And while you're not here anymore, you're still with me - in my head, in my heart, in my life.

Love,
Silvana xo