My dad died roughly four weeks ago on November 26, 2019, in Whangarei, Northland. It's his armchair that will be empty next Wednesday.
He passed away about 48 hours after he had sat in that chair and smiled as he celebrated a granddaughter's birthday.
It was a granddaughter he hadn't seen a lot of. But four months ago, her parents had made the decision to move to New Zealand from Australia.
That meant that for the last three months of dad's life, he had at least one of his three sons at home with him most days, and often at least three grand kids. Having those kids there was a wonderful gift.
One night, contemplative after a dose of medicinal cannabis, he asked me if I thought our Aussie whanau would have come to New Zealand, if he hadn't got sick.
I shrugged and said "who cares?" He shrugged back and we kept watching whatever meaningless sport was on TV.
Dad died just over 24 hours after I got to Whangarei Hospital, and we took him home to die.
He had pneumonia. Worse, he had cancer, diagnosed on October 18, 2018. It was a surreal day.
He called with the news, we talked, it was difficult, and awkward, and sad. But we didn't skirt around the obvious question.
Six months to 18 months. He had no bucket list, he reckoned.
"I can't complain, I've had a good life" he said.
Straight after that call, I sat down at a meeting I was a few minutes late for, with Trudi Kirk from the local Cancer Society. It was a very strange coincidence.
And the beginning of a challenging year for dad.
He didn't just have cancer. In lay terms, he started with one form of blood cancer which blew out into a form of full on leukaemia.
Even worser (I know, I'm inventing words), he had a dodgy heart, zero immune system and a medical history that filled a large Tupperware container with a head scratching array of medication.
He refused to use any form of sorting device for his meds. Just like, as time went on, to his wife's despair, he refused to use a walker, or a handrail, or anything that would have eased some of the pain he experienced as he was dying.
Stubborn, he only said "yes'' to the walker because at one stage, they wouldn't let him out of hospital without it. He took it home and left it in the garage.
Stubborn, he wasn't exactly in denial that he was dying, but he fought the fact his body was slowly shutting down.
He had started talking about Christmas at his place, though. It was a goal he wanted to get to. Just like the birthdays, and anniversaries he had doggedly ticked off since his diagnosis.
Anyway, he didn't make Christmas. If he hadn't caught pneumonia, who knows?
But that's okay. Because he still gave us something - a reminder that regardless of your beliefs, Christmas is a time to reflect on the family that aren't with us, and make sure you celebrate and appreciate the family that still are.
Have a happy, and safe Christmas.
