My dad passed away
Date:
Near the end of the last year, my father, Pēteris Kronis, passed away. It has been months since and I was thinking about whether I should write about it or not, but in the end decided to put this out there anyway. It was a sad, humbling and human experience. I wanted to write something, to both share in that experience and to also remember him, in writing.
What happened
I live in his old city apartment and look after it, while I work in the city as a software developer, whereas he and mom lived together in the countryside home. It just so happened that this was one of the few times when mom had been out of the house in recent memory - visiting another lady, a family friend, in Italy for a week or two, to see the sights and nature. I had joked that this was a sort of "vacation" for her, because otherwise a lot of her time was spent looking after the house, keeping it more clean than both me and dad would otherwise, cooking and looking after the dogs. Some time after her leaving, dad sounded more sickly on the phone.
I was planning to visit him at the end of the work week, for the weekend, as I often did with my parents, being on the phone with both him and mom in the days leading up to it - how he was feeling, what medicine to better bring to him and so on. Me and mom had both told him that if it gets bad, then he should drive to the nearby city (a 15 minute drive, approximately) and see the doctor there, yet he had pretty consistently responded with: "I'll wait and see." It wasn't completely out of the ordinary, because we all had previously had things like a common cold, that did not seem to actually require much medical attention, and he wouldn't really say that it was much different this time.
I had been on the phone with him just that Friday, but by Saturday, the day when I was actually getting into the bus and going to visit him, he would no longer pick up his phone. A part of me felt like this shouldn't be that big of a deal, because mom would sometimes also not pick up when busy with something or outside, yet a part of me couldn't shake the feeling that it was a sort of bad omen. By the time I arrived, he had already passed. I found him in his bed.
I called mom about what to do. I called the emergency number after, they sent an ambulance, they confirmed that he had passed away, I guess "dead with no signs of violence" is the term that gets put on the document in such cases. One of them told me that his chest was blue in color, and that it was most likely something to do with his lungs - where a person tries to take a breath but doesn't get enough oxygen, and that even if he would have been rushed to hospital while still alive (or gone himself), then it would have been hard on him. The people from the crematorium were also nice and took away his remains - after he and mom had previously discussed that he doesn't want a regular burial.
In the time leading up to that, I let the dogs into his bedroom, so they'd also understand what had happened. The person from the ambulance told me that I probably shouldn't stay alone in the house and should visit some friends or relatives for a day or two. After his remains were taken away, I brought in some firewood and got the stove going. I cleaned up the place a bit, so that by the time mom would get home it would be a bit more presentable - her flight back was scheduled in just a few days, and dad had not washed his dishes. So I did all of those. I changed the water for the dogs and put out enough food so that they'd be okay until mom would get back, since I'd be heading back to the city the next day.
It felt quite a lot like going on autopilot. I did sit down on the floor in my old room, next to the wood stove and together with dogs, and spent some time crying, just letting it all out. I felt what I had to feel in that moment, no reason to keep up appearances. It was odd - my dad was over 70 years old, I knew that something like that was bound to happen and logically I knew that it was a part of life. There wasn't much of a "bargaining" or "denial" stage of grief to be had. That didn't make any of it hurt less. It wasn't horrible in the traditional sense, there was no sense of doom or horror, but a profound emptiness and loss, a sorrow.
For much of the weeks following, that sense of being on autopilot persisted - figuring out all of the documents, taking over paying all of the bills, like electricity and water, gas in the city apartment, phone and TV bills for mom, moving providers to make the money go a bit further in the time of uncertainty. Notifying the relatives, eventually also starting proceedings in regards to the will - even though the people who provided electricity and other utilities were kind enough to let me take over paying them without technically having the ownership rights over anything yet. Everyone was nice along the way. I was reminded of the fact that the society that we live in has the ability to lend you support when you need it - systems in place that nobody would normally think much about.
Then, came the relatives - his brothers, and then also my sister and brother from his previous marriage. We got in touch, we talked a bit, as you do in cases like this. They offered to help, but thankfully the immediate concerns were already addressed. In a sense, I felt bad about never really getting to know them that well, though they are all grown people with their lives all around the country and in some cases, other countries. The family friend even offered to come live with mom a bit, at least until she'd have the fridge stocked and also the house cleaned out of various things dad had accumulated, not really collected, over the years. Old clothes to give to charity, bunches of old chargers, a silly amount of dead batteries, a bunch of documents and whatnot, that kind of stuff.
My dad and our life
It has now been months since and I feel like I've come more to terms with what happened, but it still hurts when I remember it. The other day, I saw something on the news and thought that I should tell dad about this, yet when my hand reached for the phone, I remembered. It will probably hurt for a long time, and that's okay.
I am thankful that I don't have many regrets. Sometimes when a person passes away, those around them say they wished they had been on better terms. Me and dad loved and respected each other, that much I'm happy about. Sure, over the years we had some generational disagreements - he said I should socialize more, and look for a partner, while I was just buried in work to do and things to learn. That same family friend also shared the sentiment, saying that if she were my age, she'd probably be backpacking through Europe or something, not working as much as I do. He also talked a lot about having to do more in the way of sports and exercise. It's not even that I think any of them are wrong, just that my circumstances are a bit different and hopefully I'll have time for everything later.
Though, on some level, I am sad that I didn't know more about my dad. We did talk plenty on the phone when I was living in the city, I visited around every other weekend, but a lot of it was talking about surface level topics like world politics and economy, whereas the visits would often involve a lot of various chores and fixing broken stuff - as life in the countryside demands.
Obviously, he had told me about his youth, some of the places he'd visited and things he'd done, admittedly he had lived a life way more interesting than mine has been up to this point, as many of the people of his generation did - he had even participated in the barricades of 1991 shortly before which our country became independent from Soviet rule, yet worried about OMON and Soviets trying to take it back. Back in the day, he even had his company and had travelled both through the Soviet Union, as well as abroad. He once told me that he just narrowly decided on coming back to live in Latvia, instead of moving to Australia permanently. While he had seen his fair share of times being tough in his life, he was a patriot regardless. In this country, he met my mom and built his house. He lived a long and good life, and passed away in the house that he had built. Yet it's not like I have a year by year retelling of his life, since he kept a lot of it to himself. When the relatives were recalling their own past and interactions with him, I couldn't help but to feel that his own perspective was missing, almost like if it's wrong to talk about a person's life without their own words.
On some level, I do wish I had talked more to him in general, but these past years had been kind of rough. I'm pretty sure that he might have gone through COVID or something similar - though after the crisis situation in the country due to it was resolved, the variants of the illness that came afterwards were less deadly and he just spent a week in the countryside, so I'm not sure if he did a formal test. His energy levels seemed lower, he didn't have the initiative that he once did. Maybe he was just getting old.
When I was younger, I remember him telling me that you have to do something every single day. He pretty much lived by that mantra, often times (figuratively) dragging me outside to work on something around the house, help him with the car, or the tractor, or put up a diving board for the pond, or fix water pumps, mow grass, chop firewood or any number of other things. I might not have learnt as much as he knew, but looking back at it, I'm thankful I had those experiences - in a way, it was bonding.
Even collecting these plants that grow on the sides of forest roads (chamaenerion angustifolium) to dry out and make tea out of, something that my mom rolled her eyes at because you can buy that sort of tea in the store, I'm happy that I went with him. The Latvian practice of parenie and making those brooms out of branches of Birch trees, tapping the trees for "Birch juice", some of it felt a bit silly, but I'm glad I got to participate in that part of his view on what a good life should be.
(not my own picture, but these are what you make the tea out of; though oftentimes in Latvia the sides of the roads are way more overgrown)
And yet, as I said, the past few years weren't as kind to him. I talked to his family doctor a bit more while handling the documents in the weeks following, and she told me that he had been experiencing some respiratory issues previously, apparently something that he might have had medicine for, but didn't really tell the details of to me or mom much. More recently, he had gotten a flu vaccine which can be somewhat straining on the immune system and it's possible that during the recovery from that he caught something else that was too much to deal with - yet, at his age catching flu might very well have had a similar outcome. I think it hardly matters anymore.
I think of my own health and how I probably should see a doctor for a thing or two, and just how easy it is to put off until later and be busy with the everyday passage of time - and I can see too much of him in me. I think I had pleurisy for a bit a few years ago and also didn't get an X-Ray for it in the end, because on the day when I went the machine was broken and after waiting for a few hours, I just went with the parents back to the countryside, since they had been shopping for groceries and were waiting for me in the car. It's easy to brush it aside and say how I'm "fine" now myself, yet what if there'd be something that might actually need attention? Far too many people, for some reason men, especially, don't seek out enough medical help when they really should. One might get away with it when they are younger, yet we shouldn't bet on that.
Either way, in the last few years, he no longer was waking me up, telling me that we have to go outside to work on things. I could tell that he was struggling and doing things in the countryside was becoming harder. So I'd come visit and would be mowing the grass or chopping some of the firewood (though we'd also have hired help, thankfully), and he'd be on the couch, scrolling TikTok on his phone, or watching stuff on the TV indoors.
Sometimes he'd talk about things he wants to do, additional structures to build, like we had built an elevated water container next to the greenhouse, that'd heat up in the sun and would give you warm water to water the plants with, but it was clear that it most likely wouldn't happen - I'm not sure he also understood that, or just preferred not to think about it. Now that I think back on it, I wish we could have talked more, but it also hurts, knowing that he wasn't the person that he once was and that the final years were unkind to him.
Either way, he lived a good life and I'm thankful for the years we had together, how he raised me - he did his best and was a good father. I don't think that he was too religious, but believed in some sort of a higher power, be it the Christian god or something like it. If there is a heaven, I'm sure that he is there. If not and that all that expects us after passing is nothingness, at least he's getting some well deserved rest now. He did leave me and mom with a bit of a mess afterwards, not just the dishes, but the house to clean and documents to sort out, yet we don't blame him one bit. If anything, that's a bit like him, well intentioned but a bit messy - you'll have to forgive me for the comedic relief, because I am once again tearing up.
Life goes onwards
It still hurts. It's not that I can't accept what's happened, or don't know how life will go onwards now. It just will, one day at a time. I caught laryngitis a while later and for a bit my colleagues at work had to deal with me sounding like a mobster out of an 80s movie, and being quite terse with them - not because I was upset with them or anything, but rather because speaking hurt. I'm a bit better now, life goes on, there are projects to work with, more documents to sort out. I have plans of replacing the gas water heater in the city apartment with a more modern one, and rewiring the old aluminium wires with more safe copper ones for my PC, as well as the kitchen oven. Painting the apartment's windows from the outside to prevent water damage, since the kitchen still has wooden windows. Visiting mom when I can and helping around with everything, bringing more fresh groceries and the magazines you can't subscribe for and receive in the mailbox, and so on. Keeping in touch and making good choices for the future, one day at a time.
It's the normalcy of it all that's almost painful. That something like that can happen, a person's life just end. Not even with an accident or something else that would commonly be viewed as a "tragedy", but peacefully. And yet, I will never talk to my dad again. I will never be able to ask him for advice or support, or vice versa. He is just gone, and will be gone forever. And most people out there will have similar experiences sooner or later, and will have to accept it, and pick things back up and keep going through life. On some level, it feels like I had to "grow up" very fast, despite having my own job, finished education and all that, this feels different, like a different chapter in my life.
I am thankful that up until now I've led a somewhat Spartan lifestyle - not splurging on things I don't need and having savings for a rainy day, if something were to happen. So at least I can and have taken over all of the bills and will be able to help mom as much as necessary, to take care of her, so that whatever life may look like from here on out, it's going to be okay. Dad and mom each loved and respected each other for decades - both of them good people, that I care for a lot. She has been taking this as well as anyone could, given the circumstance, even if she'll similarly need some time to process everything, as we've talked about, both in person and on the phone since. We will get through this and I will take care of her, that's what dad would have wanted.
But when all is said and done, I will miss you, dad. Rest well.
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