Dad lasted a week in the rest home he was referred to. He died on Tuesday 2nd June, some time between 2-3am. Alone. My biggest fear. No one should die alone. My sister, holidaying in the north, had been denied a visit the day before, because it was a weekend and public holiday. I am perplexed… health is not a nine to five business. I had been told only four days prior, that they would stabilise his inability to eat and drink. I had asked for assurance that if he was nearing end of life, we would be called. “Absolutely. We do end of life very well here.” So it was a shock, and I was angry. But maybe Dad, in his kindness, chose to go alone, to spare us. Who knows.

We brought him home. To the place he was happiest. Despite the doctor saying “it is very difficult” and encouraging conventional embalming, we cared for his body naturally using ice, with help from the wonderful undertaker. I slept in the same room, keeping him company, and many visitors wrapped their arms of community around us, bringing love, flowers, baking and saying their goodbyes to Dad too.

Two days later, we placed him inside a rimu casket and six women carried him past his vegetable garden where he had spent so many happy hours, to his final transport, a white Voyager. We placed flowers and chocolate hearts (one last gift to his sweet tooth) on top and followed him to the cemetery where he and the environmentally-friendly liner were to be cremated, saying our goodbyes under a glade of trees.

Four days later, as hoped, New Zealand moved to Level One and we were able to confirm the sendoff Dad so deserved. One week after he was cremated we held a celebration of his life attended by around 350 friends, family and fellow sports folk. My brother watched via video link from Perth, unable to physically comfort his mother. I never would have believed I could don my celebrant hat for someone I loved so much, but it was an honour and a privilege, my final gift to Dad, and the ten day period aided by Covid-19 helped. I don’t know how we usually do it in three or four days. In future, I will highly recommend a period of private mourning, followed by a public memorial, especially when someone’s life has been so full and takes on a sense of celebration.

A week later, Dad is back home again in our beautiful turquoise family urn. For now, he’s on the shelf under the TV, whispering advice to the halfbacks who have just returned to the rugby field. Resting peacefully regardless of the final score. Enjoy, Dad.