April 16th 2025

The Morning You Took Your Last Breath

Dear Dad,

I woke at 4:00 a.m. with a lump already lodged in my throat and eyes that felt sore before I had even opened them. I had been crying every day for the past three weeks, so at first it felt like just another morning of that familiar heaviness. The kind that greets you before your feet hit the floor, like grief has beaten you to it.

Half an hour later, the phone rang.

The nurse from Royal Perth Hospital told me your time of death was around 4:00 a.m.

It felt impossible and exact all at once. Like my body had known before my mind was ready to catch up. Like something inside me had woken at the precise moment you slipped away.

Mum was with you. Right beside you. Exactly where she needed to be. She had been clutching her phone all night, ready to call me the second anything changed. She was exhausted in a way only watching someone you love fade can do to you. At some point she went to the bathroom and her phone slipped out of her cardigan pocket and straight into the toilet.

Honestly, Dad, if there was ever a more Mum way for that to happen, I cannot think of it.

I can hear your laugh when I think about it. That loud, uncontrollable laugh. I can picture you reading this over my shoulder, shaking your head, probably saying something like, “For God’s sake,” while secretly finding it hilarious. You always teased Mum about how glued she was to her phone. When you got sick, she barely put it down, updating everyone, coordinating everything, holding the entire world together with that one little device. And of course, the moment she actually needed it, it drowned.

When the nurse told me, and Mum did not have her phone, something in me cracked wide open.

I wanted her to be the one who told me you were gone.

I cried. Not quietly. Not neatly. A deep, physical cry that came from somewhere buried in my ribs. My whole body shook. It was pain made of love and disbelief and shock, all tangled together. The kind of cry that makes you sound unfamiliar to yourself, like your body is trying to reject the news.

By 5:00 a.m., I forced myself to breathe. I stood up from the couch and walked into the bedroom. Brett was sleeping. My rock. My steady place. When I told him you were gone, he did not say anything clever or comforting. He just wrapped his arms around me and held me while I cried. I could feel how upset he was too, his sadness quietly matching mine.

We lay there for a moment, both of us knowing that whatever came next, life had already shifted forever.

Then the kids needed to get up for school.

Grief does not pause for parenting.

Brett took over everything. Breakfasts, bags, shoes, missing socks. I remember thinking how surreal it felt that the world still required packed lunches when my dad had just died. We did not tell the kids yet. We could not. We did not want them carrying this into a school day, did not want your death sitting beside them at their desks.

After the school drop-off, we drove to the neurological ward.

Walking through those doors knowing you were not alive on the other side is something I will never forget. The hallway felt longer. The air felt heavier. It felt like the building itself knew why we were there.

Your room felt cold and strangely empty. I went straight to Mum. She looked utterly exhausted, hollowed out, but there was a softness there too. A quiet relief beneath the grief, knowing you were no longer suffering.

Then I turned to you.

You were so cold.

I took your hand and pressed my cheek against your face, knowing with absolute certainty that I would never hear your voice again. Never hear you say my name. Never hear you laugh at your own jokes before anyone else had the chance to.

My brother arrived soon after. We stood around you, all of us trying to understand how the world could still be standing when you were gone. Someone said something about paperwork and I remember thinking how wildly inappropriate it felt that admin still existed in this moment. You would have appreciated that irony. Dying does not exempt you from forms.

I needed to see you. I needed to say goodbye before telling the kids. I needed to gather myself first, even though I knew I would still fall apart. Being there with Mum, my brother, and my husband felt right. It felt like the only way this could have happened.

Watching you get sicker over the past six months was brutal. I could not focus on anything else. I could not stop thinking about you. I felt helpless in a way I had never known before. Somewhere deep down, I think I already knew this day was coming, even while desperately hoping I was wrong.

We still do not know what made you worse. We still do not have answers about how you passed away.

When I said goodbye, I leaned down and kissed your head. I held you the same way you held me through so many moments of my life, through milestones, heartbreaks, celebrations. Your body was cold. Still. Final. I remember thinking how unfair it was that something so solid could just stop.

We stood there, each of us carrying grief in our own way. Beneath it all was one fragile truth we could cling to. You were not suffering anymore. You were not in pain. I do not think I will ever forget the look of pain on your face near the end, and I am grateful that part was over for you, even if it broke us.

Oh Dad, I am going to miss the ordinary things most of all. Having a wine with you. Your quiet jokes. The way you would sit there, slightly removed, observing everyone, even though you loved us all deeply. The way you made presence feel steady, even when you said very little.

And suddenly people were talking about what comes next. Autopsies. Death certificates. The morgue. I remember thinking that if you could hear this conversation, you would probably make a joke about it just to break the tension. I almost laughed at the thought, and then immediately felt guilty for it. Grief is strange like that. Sadness and humour sharing the same breath.

Hearing those words made me feel sick. Like I might vomit. Like my body was physically rejecting the reality they were trying to hand me.

This is not real.
It cannot be.

I do not know what to do right now. I only know that I miss you more than I thought was possible.

Love always,
Your favourite daughter,
Tara

P.S. Here are 2 photos of you walking me down the aisle. I was lucky enough to have you do it twice. Overachiever, really.