42

It has been 42 days.

Earthly possessions that belong to my father have been packed away in boxes, kept in cupboards, given away to charity or disposed of. Family members have come weekly to claim bits and pieces of what were once prized posessions to my father to retain as a memory.

42 days has passed since his death.

Our lives have begun to move on, there is no use dwelling in the past. It doesn't seem that long ago that our everyday consisted of tiresome trips to the hospital, which was furthermore burdened by his erratic behaviour and mood swings in the rare occasions of lucidity. But that did not matter. It was one and a half months, day in and day out, before his body finally gave out. It would have been a lifetime before either of us would decide to give up on him.

We never did.

The memory of watching his heart stop beating, with tearful cries surrounding his hospital bed in ward 3001 will never fade. Even when we knew the full reality of the situation, we never gave up hope.

88, 67, 34.... his heartrate fell within a matter of minutes.

What they don't tell you in hospitals, what they never wish to tell you - your heart doesn't give up and stop beating in a nice, slow relaxed manner. Hollywood doesn't prepare you for death. Hearts don't flatline within a matter of seconds - it takes minutes. Cruel, gruelling, heartwrenching minutes as you watch a loved one wither away.

88, 67, 34... 68... 89... 120... 151..

What they don't tell you in hospitals, what they never wish to tell you - in the few moments when a patient's heart starts to pick up, and what's left of the of hope left in a family's heart starts to blossom again... that's when the worst has happened.

The heart releases extra pulses before it becomes nothing but motionless muscle.

I remember my mom's cries. At 10.45am, when his heart started to beat faster - when it started the initial climb back up to what we've learned in the last month to be 'normal' - or heck, 'good enough' - my mom started to cry. Tears of joy. Random phrases of hope were yelled out, in hopes that he would hear it - "You're coming back!", "You're a phoenix, rise from the ashes!", "Don't give up! Keep trying! We're waiting!"

But I knew it wasn't hope, it wasn't a miracle, it wasn't some dumb stroke of luck that was bringing my father back - he was leaving, not returning.

I will never forget.

I walked out of the hospital room there and then, shaky, in tears - but calm. I stood in the corridor we had spent so many days and nights in, watching as the world continued. It seemed selfish, but I had hoped that there was some recognition to my father's death occuring in that instant. I felt close to telling everyone, 'Hey, you may not know him - but a great man is dying in that bed right now. You should be sad. You should be mourning. A great man is leaving us.'