Had my Babbo known he’d spend his last breathing days in a state of distress, and anguish, and despair, and agony, and clicking bones, and nappies, and humiliation, he’d have topped himself on first hearing the word ‘terminal’.
There was no bright light at the end of a tunnel for my father, no fluffy clouds, no cherubic faces of those gone before him, welcoming him, no serenity, no bearded man in a kaftan, arms outstretched, calling him home. There was only indignity. And sorrow. And anguish. And agony. And soiled bed linen. And humiliation. And love. There was love. Familial Love. Earthly love. Unconditional love. Accepting. And abundant.
There was no God casting a celestial glow above my suffering father’s deathbed. There was no God, because there is no God.