My father – Emeryk Ostruszka – fell very ill on an Easter Sunday. By 7am we had rushed him to hospital, where we learned that his blocked appendix had burst and he should have been brought to emergency hours ago. Instead, he had quietly crept between couch and bathroom all night, in absolute agony. He had tried to will the pain away because his girls were all home and he so treasured our time together he didn’t want to "ruin" the family Easter or miss out on any of the fun.
Four months later he was dead.
Dad’s heart-wrenching diagnosis of cancer gate-crashed our lives only days after that fateful Easter Sunday. On hearing the news, the bottom fell out of my world. Then the sides caved in and the sky fell too. I was so winded it felt like I would never get my breath back. And for a long time I didn’t.
The cancer news came on dad’s 65th birthday. We rolled into his hospital room with balloons and a huge cake and presents and champagne only to be stopped in our tracks by the look on has face. Ashen, bitterly incredulous, serious, steely, full of grit and fight but somehow knowing and resigned. Frozen to the spot, my hands filled with party paraphernalia, I felt like I was in a Hollywood horror film – the fun-fair scene, where the organ grinder music suddenly becomes eerily loud, the vision goes to slow-mo and every trick mirror now reflects a warped, nightmarish reality.
Turns out, dad’s appendix had been blocked by a tumour. The surgeon had popped in around 6am to say, “Hi, you’ve got cancer, have a nice day”, then left him alone to grapple with the emotional grenade … Don’t get me started on how little we do to ensure support for people when tragic news is delivered around serious illness – when our family learned that his surgery was not successful and he had only weeks to live, we were delivered the devastating news standing in a bloody corridor!