The last goodbye

Hello again!

Following my previous post, where I began sharing my dad’s last days read here if you missed it), I’m now back with part 2.

In my last post, I finished by sharing the last time I physically said goodbye to him. I left his home feeling somehow optimistic. He had two carers now, I had installed all the necessary wall support, and I’d bought small dishes so food portions were less intimidating. Adult nappies and a bedpan were ‘just in case’ purchases, which he wasn’t too keen on.

Since I live far away from home, the 10-hour plane journey is always filled with thoughts and reflections around, ‘What if this is the last time we see each other?’ (Yes, maybe this is my overly sentimental Latin side).

I arrived back in London, back to work and ‘normal life,’ except now, with cameras in my dad’s bedroom, I kept checking them obsessively to make sure he was okay and to feel closer to him.

27th May 2022

Was one of the last days he was fully present. For those of you who are new here, I’ve written a previous post explaining why that date was important—you can read this post here

This is when I began to see a rapid decline. It was as if the little flower I had left, freshly trimmed, was losing its glow. I noticed he wasn’t getting out of bed at all, barely eating, and sleeping most of the time. Sometimes I would ring him and, through the camera, see him in a deep sleep, unable to hear the ringtone. Now I realise that waking him up from a nap was like bringing him back to consciousness, another sign I didn’t know indicated the end of life was near.

30th May 2022

Was the last text message I received from my dad, wishing me a good day and telling me he loved me. I immediately called him back, and I could hear him struggling to speak, though he didn’t seem to be in any discomfort.

31st May 2022

I checked the camera and saw one of the carers playing instrumental religious music for my dad (she knew the end was near and was trying to soothe him). Moments later, I saw my dad with my aunt. He was struggling to talk, and I heard him ask her: ‘Am I dying?’

I watched my aunt freak out a bit, asking if he was okay, and she called one of my dad’s friends into the room. He wasn’t in any distress, but I could see he was fragile and a little disconnected from reality.

I was watching everything from my phone, feeling emotional and confused, wondering if this was the end.

I decided to video call them since I was already watching live. My dad’s friend picked up the phone, crying, and told me they’d called the ambulance (yes, they probably shouldn’t have, but at that point, it seemed right). It crossed my mind that this might be the last time I’d speak to my dad, so I asked her to put him on the camera. He could barely open his eyes, his mouth was open, and I wasn’t sure if he was asleep. She loudly told him it was me on the phone, and he opened his eyes.

• I asked him, ‘Dad, is this the right time for me to come to Mexico and be with you?’

• He said, ‘No, wait.’

• I then told him, ‘I love you so, so much’ (and I took a screenshot of our video call).

• He replied, ‘I love you too’ (struggling), and then disengaged.

  DISCLAIMER: I am sharing this screenshot because 1. it means a lot to me and 2. because I think its important to normalise seeing people in the end of life. I hope I don’t offend you and if you don’t want to see the image, you can quickly scroll down.

We hung up, and I continued watching everything through the camera. I saw the emergency team take him out of his bed and into another to transport him to the hospital.

Meanwhile, I stayed in touch with the carers who accompanied him to the hospital. They sent me videos of him in the hospital bed with some family around. He couldn’t talk, but his eyes were wide open. Some might think these videos are morbid, but I love having them. It hurts, of course, but I’d rather see it all.

A few hours later, my dad was unconscious in bed, and I received more videos. My mum told me it was time to fly home; the end was near. My sister was also booking a flight back to Mexico. This was it; it was happening.

My now-husband and I booked our tickets for the next day. I still hoped my dad might wake up. Silly me, but hope is the last thing to die.

1st June 2022

At the airport, there was some sort of strike, and the queues at security were massive, something I had never seen before. To this day, whenever I’m in Heathrow Terminal 3, I get flashbacks. While in the queue, my sister called and said, ‘I just wanted to double-check dad’s wishes—remember he didn’t want to be intubated? The doctor is asking, but I think we should say no.’ I agreed because that’s what he wanted.

Standing in the slowest queue in the world, I realised: this is it. My dad is dying, and all I can do is wait to get on this plane for 10 hours. It’s not ideal to have this realisation in front of a bunch of strangers.

Thankfully, planes now have Wi-Fi, so I stayed connected for updates. I struggled to sleep.

3 hours before landing

Three hours before landing in Mexico, my brother sent me a video of my dad. I could see his very low heart rate, and my brother was showing me that dad was taking his last breaths. He didn’t know when it would happen, but it would be soon.

A few minutes later, he messaged me to say my dad had died. It’s not ideal to receive this news mid-flight, knowing there’s nothing you can do. I felt so helpless. Part of me wished I could have talked to him one last time, even if he couldn’t respond.

Since that day, I’ve spent many moments regretting not flying home sooner. Even though there were signs, it’s hard to time death.

2nd June 2022

At my dad’s funeral, I spoke with one of the carers. I expressed regret about not being there sooner. She said something beautiful: ‘Fer, you asked your dad if you should come right away, and he said no. The hardest part for people who are dying is leaving the ones they love behind. I think he wanted to go, but seeing you would have been too painful. Maybe this is how he wanted it.’

Those words were the most comforting I could have heard at that moment. I’ll never know if they’re true, but I believe things happen for a reason, and maybe this was how he planned it.

With this story, I close this chapter of blogging about Evermore. In the next post, you’ll see a revamped version. This was a story I kept very close to my heart, and while I relive these days often in my mind, it’s painful to sit down and consciously write about it. But I do it hoping that, if you ever face something similar, you’ll know you’re not alone, and you will get through it.

I also hope that you can learn from my experience—for example, having conversations about where you’d like to die (at home, in the hospital, etc.) in an ideal scenario. Be informed about what the end of life looks like, so you and your loved ones don’t panic in those final moments.

Man’s Search for Meaning

In this book, Viktor Frankl observed that people, especially in extreme situations like concentration camps, often held onto life by focusing on something meaningful—whether it was a future event, a loved one, or a goal. Frankl’s work shows how a strong connection between mind, hope, and life can profoundly impact our physical endurance, especially at the end of life.

Hope and a sense of purpose are vital for survival. To this day, I believe my dad set a date in his mind as the only thing he had to look forward to. Once that meaningful event occurred, it’s possible his sense of purpose was fulfilled, and he felt ready to let go.

Having written this, I am ready to let go, too but will always carry him with me wherever I go.

See you soon!