To my dad

I got back from Finland in time to see dad before we closed his eyes.

It was an overwhelming experience made special by all the family being there together.

We cried and hugged and found and gave comfort with dad right there with us.

Looking into his eyes before he went is a moment I will cherish for ever and I thank him for giving me that - he knew I was coming and he was decent enough right to the end to hang on for the wayward lad, the prodigal son.

Poor mum was with him throughout the horrible ordeal which only got worse the longer it went on.

I am really happy to have spent last summer at home with them both. He came home after his first stay at hospital when I arrived back at the beginning of July. He was weak but he got stronger and after a little while mum and I had him up and walking again.

'She's an angel your mum.'

She really is.

We believed there was hope - that is the only way you can go on - but dad was frustrated and mum and I would catch him sitting back in the conservatory looking up at the sky, contemplating.

It's a horrible thing to have gone through, to have suffered in that way and although it is little consolation we can thank all the carers for doing all that they could.

But no one deserves his praise more than mum who was there, who was always there and always has been there, tending to his needs and staying at his bedside with no sleep towards the end.

The last words he shared with anyone were the last words he shared with mum in that little room with two hospital beds crammed into it three days before I arrived: 'Let's go now, Let's go home.'

'We will David, we will. But it's dark now. We'll go in the morning. We'll put the beds next to the window and we'll look out at the little birds in the garden.'

You needn't blame yourself mum, you needn't beat yourself up about anything; you did bring him home, I see him everywhere. I see him in his favourite chair in the conservatory. I see him sitting at the small dining table where we would have lunch together. I see him in his pyjamas and dressing gown making the tea before taking it upstairs to drink with you.

In earlier times when we all lived together standing at the worktop carving the Sunday roast.

At the larger table where we as a family would eat, dad at the head of the table, a glass of red at hand.

Sitting in his chair with the Connolly leather from when he worked at the stock exchange.

In the garden doing his leaks.

In the green house.

And in the studio throwing a new pot.

There are millions of memories that all of us who had anything to do with him will hold in our hearts for ever.

It's easier for some of us who didn't see the last days of torture.

And, mum, it's easier for me.

I see him everywhere and it's good and I can only hope, mum, that soon you can replace the memories of those last few days in Clarke Ward with visions of happier times because...

you did bring him home.

Your beautiful boy is home.