How I Got Over the Pain of Watching My Father Dying on Zoom
<p>For the third time in five minutes, I gave him the same answer: “You’re 87, mate.”</p>
<p>Under normal circumstances, I’d have said, “Fuck me” just loud enough for him to hear, then given him a gobful for not listening, but the gurgling rattle in his chest that hijacked each breath and overwhelmed every background beep and buzz from his bed meant I wasn’t so harsh on him this time.</p>
<p>“87, eh? That’s good enough for me,” he said again.</p>
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<p>As soon as he’d wheezed those words out, his pallid, blue eyes froze and his hollow, sallow cheeks stopped still. Then the rattle disappeared.</p>
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<p>Complete silence.</p>
<p>“Dad!” I screamed. “Dad!”</p>
<p>I was a man of 47, but I felt like a ten-year-old boy on the side of the road pleading for my father to wake up after he’d been crushed by a car.</p>
<p>“Dad!” I screamed once more.</p>
<p>Then the screen came to life again, covered by a bright pink finger, and a nurse looked into my eyes and said, “Sorry, Iain. Just a few wi-fi issues. I think we’re back on now.”</p>
<p>“Fuck me,” I said under my breath as I sat back down in my chair and tried to recompose myself.</p>
<p>My father had been poorly for more than ten years and bedridden for the last three, so I’d prepared myself for the inevitable time he passed away, but I hadn’t prepared for seeing it live through a 27-inch flat screen monitor.</p>
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