My Dad was in his mid sixties at home having outlived his prognosis from his brain tumour by nine months because he wanted to meet the girl my brother would marry. New Year’s Eve he sipped the celebration champagne. Four days later he changed; Mum and I told him he could let go. He died. That night Mum slept as always in the bed next to him. The next day his Grandchildren put flowers round his body and played on the floor. The second night Mum slept there as normal and on the third day we asked the undertaker to take his body. We were ready. The undertaker, in conversation, told us business was “picking up after Christmas,” as people live through the festive season and then die!
