"He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

Some more inspiration from Mama Kat.
Last week you chose a 6 word memoir to share…this week elaborate. Tell us the story or thought process behind the sentence you wrote.

*Deep breath

My father was an amazing man. I don't think I actually realised this (being a young - wrapped up in herself- teenager) until he got sick and I started to view life in a different way. It was probably time for me to grow up anyway (I had just turned 20) but having to lose someone who, 1) you never thought you would lose and, 2) you thought was invincible, seemed like a cruel way to go about it.

One Sunday afternoon, after mowing the lawns at home, Dad began coughing up blood. Initial thoughts from the paramedic friend we had at the house was a ruptured something in his throat as he'd had a cough for a while, the actual outcome was far more serious.
That night Dad was admitted to ICU and the 10 minutes that I spent seeing him that night I remember as being the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life up to that point. I thought I was a big grown up but holding it together in a room where your father had so many machines hooked up to him and wires coming out of him took the wind out of me, that's for sure. Thank god I had Mr. Man there to hold my hand.

After that night in the ICU Dad was in a 'normal' ward at both major hospitals in Auckland for about 2 weeks before he came home. The verdict? The lesions in his lungs were secondary cancers to a huge (grapefruit sized) tumor he has on one of his kidneys. The painful part being that it had probably been there for up to 10 years and numerous trips to the doctors with a sore tummy had been glossed over as 'muscle pain'. The fact that the cancer had already made a journey to another organ was a grim finding.
During those 2 weeks in hospital there was a surgeon who said there could be a possibility of cutting the tumor out and there were some clinical trials dad could go on to shrink the cancer. Unknown to us kids at this time (mum and dad did not tell us until sometime later), the surgeon also said the likelihood of any treatments working were slim and he had about 12 - 18 months to live.

Dad wanted to keep that fact secret. He was an optimistic and positive person who, god knows why, still trusted and believed in the NZ medical system. So the following year saw him getting numerous CT scans, assessments, medical trials and hours upon hours spent sitting at the oncology waiting room at Auckland hospital. You would have never known he was sick sometimes, he lost weight - but he needed to and he worried often - not that he would let you know that.
So we went on with life really - birthdays (my 21st even), family get-togethers, dinners, laughing, smiling, Christmas (not knowing it would be his last) paying absolutely no attention to the growth on his kidney, which at its peak reached the size of a rugby ball.

It was around July of 2007 that Dad let us kids know that, although he would try until the end to 'fight this bastard' he was going to die. I remember the night vividly.  It's amazing what sticks in my head from those 18 months of sickness, but that night is one such memory. I remember looking around at all the faces in my parents' lounge - my brother, my mum, Mr. Man, Dad... no one could tell me things were going to be OK. We all had a brave face on, and we all did until the end. Although I think most of us had known for some time that this was going to happen, hearing Dad say it was a big blow.

Late October of the same year was the last time Dad was admitted to Auckland hospital. Another day I remember very clearly. He was having yet another CT scan that day and I always felt funny on the days that he was - light headed and wot not.  No doubt all in my head. I had just gone back into class after morning tea and my cellphone rang, mum, "Dad's been admitted mate, think you better get up here as soon as possible". Luckily for me, I worked in a fantastic school and another teacher walking her class across the court saw my face as I talked on the phone, took my class and told me to go. I don't remember the car ride apart from a lot of shaking and that it was a sunny day.

Arriving at the hospital it would seem that Dad had had a fall while getting his radiation for the day and wasn't able to get back up. Lots of things were put in place that day including my Uncle Kev coming over from Australia but a week or so later we took dad home.  All fitted out with hospital bed in the lounge and being taught how to administer morphine using the intravenous needle. At this stage the cancer had spread to pretty much every organ imaginable - kidney, lungs, pancreas, bladder, brain, bone - you name it, it was probably infesting itself there. Which made life incredibly painful for dad. The cancer was eating away at vertebrae of his spine so bone was meeting bone and lying down was not great comfort for him. Although the reason for us being there was so horrible the family time we had during these weeks was great and I think it gave a lot of us some form of the beginning of closure. I recall one day, all the troops sitting in the lounge while dad slept, my niece sitting on my lap, listening to 'James Taylor's Greatest Hits' and all bawling our eyes out.  The doctor came to the ranch slider on his daily visit and looking in on the lot of us thought dad had passed. Nope, just a sad, but nice family moment.

After 3 weeks of being home with dad waiting for the inevitable, I grudgingly decided to go back to work in late November, we all did, and plans were made for dad to go into The Gardens Hospice just up the road, which left mum (and Aunty Sheryl most days) with him all day and us kids visiting most nights. In good Dad spirit he held on for another 2 weeks, tough old bugger. The hospice was a lovely place and I can't speak highly enough of the nurses that work there.  What a beautiful place for terminally ill people to spend their last days or for family members to get a rest.

At 3:03 in the morning on the 12th of December 2007 the phone rang, mum, "Doesn't look like it's going to be much longer, you better come down the the hospice matey.  Andrea is on her way and I'll call Mike after I get off the phone to you". Another 20 minute car ride I have no recollection of. I arrived at the hospice and went straight in, thank god Dad had held on - he didn't for my sister or my brother.  Dad died as mum and I held his hands and immediately we saw the pain he'd been holding on to for months vanish from his face.  It was almost like he was smiling.  He looked at peace. Those few minutes when dad took the last breaths of his life were by far the hardest moments of my life to this point. Like I said before, we knew it was happening but until it actually did, it didn't hit you.  And to be honest it didn't really hit me then.

I know every little girl probably thinks this of her dad, but he really was an outstanding person. Mr. Man only knew him for a short while, most of it while he was ill, but was able to sum him up well when he spoke about him at our wedding - "He was one of the best people I have ever met.  He never had a negative bone in his body, unless it was for the team who the Warriors were playing against".
I have missed him immensely since he passed. I know he would have been great playing with our fur baby, Jake and to not have him walk me down the aisle at our wedding was heartbreaking.  As is the fact he's not around for my pregnancy and the birth of little one.  Although, like I did for our wedding, I know he'll be around somewhere.

To sign off I'll leave you with a little bit of what I had to say about him at his funeral;

"We’re going to miss you Dad.  You taught me so much and you’re by far the most influential person in my life.  And I’m sure that echoes for all of us.
We couldn’t have asked for a better dad, grandad, husband, brother, cousin and friend.
We love you mate."