As I write this, it’s still the 1st of November, but the 2nd is just around the corner. Those days, two years ago, were probably the worst of my life.
Tomorrow, two years ago, my father died after a longer period of illness of about 2 years. Even though he was supposedly on the road to recovery, while I was on vacation with my mother and sister, there was an accident at the hospital and eventually he died just a short time before we could be there, although we’ve been trying to get back as soon as possible after we heard about it. In the end he had probably died of a stroke, but the doctors only found out about it during an autopsy.
Of the three of us who were on vacation, I had last seen him alive. Before we wanted to go on vacation for a few days, I quickly brought him something to the hospital the evening before, after we had all visited him during the day.
I miss him, but somehow I’m also relieved that he was finally freed from his illness, where the doctors hadn’t found out what it actually was until the end.
Life goes on somehow. The first year was especially hard, but meanwhile we (or I) have got used to the circumstances. I visit his grave on a regular basis.