'When my dad got a terminal diagnosis, he did the exact opposite of what people expected.'

My dad was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia in September last year.

The doctors were confident of a remission with chemotherapy treatment but, once the remission ended, there was no cure.

As predicted, Dad went into remission but, in July this year, he found out the leukaemia had returned. He was given a few months to live.

He lasted just over two.

Dad really wanted to go on a cruise around Australia, from Sydney to Fremantle. His doctors gave him the all clear but he returned with Covid which required hospitalisation. Finally, a different infection overcame his immune-suppressed body.

Did the cruise shorten his life? Probably.

Am I angry about that? No.

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Dad wanted to go on the cruise. He wanted to live his life and not curl up in a chair and wait to die. If the cruise cost him some weeks, so be it.

He was able to visit Broome and Exmouth where he had never been and he was able to feel like he was really living.

Dad ended up being in hospital for two-and-a-half weeks before he died and I was lucky enough to be able to visit him every day.

This week, I have to get used to not heading off to The Alfred Hospital first thing every day so that I was there for the 10am doctors' rounds.

It was my privilege to be able to be there to adjust Dad's pillows, to help him eat some custard and, in his last days, offer him water to wet his lips.

Image: Supplied.

The last year has been a gift of sorts. I have been able to spend more time with Dad and hear stories of his 83 years of life, especially stories of his youth that he had never shared.

Dad was always a person who looked forward and not backwards. Dying made him reflect on his life and want to look backwards; want to reminisce.

Once the Covid was treated, Dad had a few days of more energy. He started calling people. Over and over again, it was the same opening, "Hi, this is John. This is the last time we'll be speaking as I am at the end."

I said to him, "Goodness, bit of a hard opening line for the person you are ringing. What are they supposed to say to that?"

In response, he said, "Oh well, I've always believed in being direct!"

Dad was able to ring his siblings overseas. They were not close (Dad left home at 15) but, at the end of his life, it was important to Dad that he reconnected and spoke with his sisters and brother.

That particular day, my sister and brother (both of whom live interstate) were visiting and the three of us kids were in the hospital room together, listening to him chat to his siblings. Dad proclaimed that day as "amazing".

Dad had his quirks. One of them was still insisting that his partner bought a Tattslotto ticket for him each week. I smiled and said, "What are you going to do if you win? Go on a world cruise or something?"

He laughed.

Apparently, he won $7,000 once and he was on a lifetime quest to win big again before he died!

Dad walking me down the aisle. Image: Supplied.

Dad kept saying that he had

no regrets, that he'd had a great life, great children and great grandchildren.

I'm not saying that he was in a hurry to die but he was happy with the way his life had turned out, particularly since his childhood in Ireland was impoverished.

As his condition worsened, his body cruelly refused to give out but, finally, last Friday morning, he took his last breath. I was there, holding his hand.

I have been lucky so far in my life to have little experience of the hospital system. Doctors and nurses are exceptional people. So kind, so patient, so caring. Of Dad, of his partner and of me.

Friday was emotionally exhausting and I chose takeaway fish and chips for dinner. Whilst I was waiting for the food to cook, I had a flashback of being a little girl and begging to go with Dad in the car to pick up the fish and chips. I loved the smell of the fish and chip shop then as I do now. I remembered all those times waiting with Dad for the hot parcel of fish and chips and asking for a wickedly sour pickled onion whilst we waited.

I hadn't remembered this for the longest time. Yet, the memory flashed into my mind on the day he drew his last breath.

Image: Supplied.

For, at the end of a life, that's all we are left with — a bundle of memories. Some vivid; some not. Some really important life moments and some simple, everyday things like picking up the fish and chips.

I'll miss you Dad.

Feature Image: Supplied.