By Etsuko Yasunaga
January 2008
My plane finally landed in Nagasaki. Instead of my dad, my uncle was waiting for me at the airport. I got my suitcase hurriedly and walked to him. We exchanged brief greetings then walked straight to the car park. It was not a normal home coming. My uncle drove me straight to the hospital. There was not much time left. We arrived and took the lift to the floor where my dad’s room was. Everyone was there. My mum, my sister, my aunty and another uncle sat around dad’s bed, just waiting.
January 2008
My plane finally landed in Nagasaki. Instead of my dad, my uncle was waiting for me at the airport. I got my suitcase hurriedly and walked to him. We exchanged brief greetings then walked straight to the car park. It was not a normal home coming. My uncle drove me straight to the hospital. There was not much time left. We arrived and took the lift to the floor where my dad’s room was. Everyone was there. My mum, my sister, my aunty and another uncle sat around dad’s bed, just waiting.
Mum whispered into my dad’s left ear, ‘Etsuko is here, she is in the room now’. Everyone cleared the space for me so I sat next to dad, held his hand. He was very weak, in and out of consciousness, but recognised me by just nodding his head. In fact he was almost waiting for me. Four hours after my arrival his rattling breath ceased and the monitoring equipment showed a flat line. At least dad's last moment was pain-free and peaceful. It was like a low tide ebbing away. To be present at his bedside in the last few hours of his life was precious and extraordinarily profound.
May 2017
Rob’s mum Emily in England had another stroke. This time she may not survive - that was our thought. Rob’s brother Neil was often at her bedside and regularly updated Rob on her deteriorating condition. Day by day it became apparent that Rob needed to book a flight to England. The timing was crucial. When Rob’s booking was confirmed, Neil didn’t hesitate. ‘Mum, Robert is on his way now. He is coming to see you’, he gently spoke to Emily. Up until that point, Emily’s breath was heavy and laboured. Apparently as soon as Emily heard those words, she exhaled deeply. Then her breath settled and became very calm. Neil told me that after her passing, and I was deeply touched by it.
It’s thought that the last sense to go is hearing. Even though the dying person may seem unconscious, your loved one may still sense your presence and be able to hear what you are saying. I’m grateful that Neil uttered those intimate words Emily wanted to hear at the last hours of her life.
August 2023
The gate is open. We drive up the familiar driveway and park the car. We walk quietly to the front door. The door is opened and I see G’s fragile smile. She hugs us one by one and welcomes us inside. So familiar, as we’ve done this many times before, yet so different because our dear friend is not there to greet us. He is too sick. We enter the lounge room and look for J, expecting him to be sitting on the comfortable lounge chair. I can’t see him. ‘Where is he?’ I wonder. I glance over to the other side of the room, and see the bed.
There he was, the upper body slightly lifted to help him breathe, lying on the bed. He looked utterly small. He is indeed very sick. We spoke to him on the phone less than two weeks before. The initial shock of seeing him like that soon dissipates. I want to connect with him. We go to his bedside, take turn to greet him. He is not awake but it doesn’t matter. I tell him that we are back from our caravan trip. I notice his eyelids are half open. His breath is laboured. G asks me ‘Is that too distressing for you?’ ‘Not at all,’ I reply. My distress is nothing compared to what he is going through. I’m extremely sad to see him like that and there is nothing I can do to ease his suffering. The hope of recovery begins to make way for the grim reality of impending death. The dying process has certainly started and there is no turning back. The reality is too heavy to bear.
We continue sit around his bed, chat amongst ourselves. With G’s suggestion, I apply moisturiser on his dry skin. His hands are purple but reassuringly warm. I keep on telling everyone ‘His hands are so warm’ as I massage his hands. I smell the sweet scent of rose essence in the cream. I observe his heaving breaths followed by a quiet period of almost no breath. I’m simply unable to comprehend fully what his mind is going through as a person who is approaching the end of life, but being in his presence is an incredible gift.
He is in and out of consciousness for hours, but briefly opens his eyes and recognises us. He acknowledges each of us and looks right into our eyes. Then a smile - that infectious big smile everyone still talks about - appears on his face. He is pleased to see us. I smile back with tears. So precious, I want to hold on to these brief moments. Then his eyes close and the moments are gone. Same as any other moment in our life, these precious moments are never to be repeated.
He drew his last breath on the night of our farewell visit.
We are utterly heartbroken at this sad news. Dearest friend, your departure leaves a big void in our hearts. Fun-loving, always positive and spirited - one of the nicest people we have known and such a great friend. It was a privilege to have known you. Farewell beloved one, at peace now.
May 2017
Rob’s mum Emily in England had another stroke. This time she may not survive - that was our thought. Rob’s brother Neil was often at her bedside and regularly updated Rob on her deteriorating condition. Day by day it became apparent that Rob needed to book a flight to England. The timing was crucial. When Rob’s booking was confirmed, Neil didn’t hesitate. ‘Mum, Robert is on his way now. He is coming to see you’, he gently spoke to Emily. Up until that point, Emily’s breath was heavy and laboured. Apparently as soon as Emily heard those words, she exhaled deeply. Then her breath settled and became very calm. Neil told me that after her passing, and I was deeply touched by it.
It’s thought that the last sense to go is hearing. Even though the dying person may seem unconscious, your loved one may still sense your presence and be able to hear what you are saying. I’m grateful that Neil uttered those intimate words Emily wanted to hear at the last hours of her life.
August 2023
The gate is open. We drive up the familiar driveway and park the car. We walk quietly to the front door. The door is opened and I see G’s fragile smile. She hugs us one by one and welcomes us inside. So familiar, as we’ve done this many times before, yet so different because our dear friend is not there to greet us. He is too sick. We enter the lounge room and look for J, expecting him to be sitting on the comfortable lounge chair. I can’t see him. ‘Where is he?’ I wonder. I glance over to the other side of the room, and see the bed.
There he was, the upper body slightly lifted to help him breathe, lying on the bed. He looked utterly small. He is indeed very sick. We spoke to him on the phone less than two weeks before. The initial shock of seeing him like that soon dissipates. I want to connect with him. We go to his bedside, take turn to greet him. He is not awake but it doesn’t matter. I tell him that we are back from our caravan trip. I notice his eyelids are half open. His breath is laboured. G asks me ‘Is that too distressing for you?’ ‘Not at all,’ I reply. My distress is nothing compared to what he is going through. I’m extremely sad to see him like that and there is nothing I can do to ease his suffering. The hope of recovery begins to make way for the grim reality of impending death. The dying process has certainly started and there is no turning back. The reality is too heavy to bear.
We continue sit around his bed, chat amongst ourselves. With G’s suggestion, I apply moisturiser on his dry skin. His hands are purple but reassuringly warm. I keep on telling everyone ‘His hands are so warm’ as I massage his hands. I smell the sweet scent of rose essence in the cream. I observe his heaving breaths followed by a quiet period of almost no breath. I’m simply unable to comprehend fully what his mind is going through as a person who is approaching the end of life, but being in his presence is an incredible gift.
He is in and out of consciousness for hours, but briefly opens his eyes and recognises us. He acknowledges each of us and looks right into our eyes. Then a smile - that infectious big smile everyone still talks about - appears on his face. He is pleased to see us. I smile back with tears. So precious, I want to hold on to these brief moments. Then his eyes close and the moments are gone. Same as any other moment in our life, these precious moments are never to be repeated.
He drew his last breath on the night of our farewell visit.
We are utterly heartbroken at this sad news. Dearest friend, your departure leaves a big void in our hearts. Fun-loving, always positive and spirited - one of the nicest people we have known and such a great friend. It was a privilege to have known you. Farewell beloved one, at peace now.