My lovely old dad died on Wednesday. And people ask: ‘was it sudden?’, to which I reply, ‘no, its taken 97 years’. Because he died of old age. It all just packed up. Slowly, gradually until over the last couple of years he had virtually no sight, very poor hearing and was ‘mobile’ with a walking frame for any distance up to 25 yards.

He was a truly remarkable man and a truly wonderful man. Everyone said so. But unlike in the case of 97% of deceased, this time they actually meant it. He loved talking to people. All people. Especially ones he didn’t know. At the funeral today two women turned up who he used to meet in Tescos for coffee on Wednesday mornings after some chance encounter at the checkout one day. He spoke to both regularly even during covid and in his care home. As he did with numerous friends of 50, 60, 70 years.

He used to call in to LBC radio. Normally, in his 80s, to tell Nick Ferrari how whichever incumbent Tory prime minister was a disgrace to the party and needs to move far more to the right wing to regain any validity. ‘Morris from South Woodford’ was just the mouthpiece of someone engaged in every facet of life, from his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, arts, music (up to and including Glen Miller), everything.

As his sight deteriorated from macula degeneration he still read his Daily Mail every day, ‘stretched out’ on his iPad and still with a magnifier. Then, about 4 months ago he cancelled his Mail subscription and told me ‘he wasn’t interested in politics any more’.
And I’m like, WTF???? It’s like a lion telling you he’s giving up meat. But as his hearing too was failing and even Alexa could no longer help, it was just too difficult to keep up. I now realise, the beginning of the end.

His physicality was compromised by back and knee problems until, other than his sharp-as-ever mind, there was nothing left. That mind had no outlet, nor much input.

Last Sunday I visited him and he ran me through all his paperwork, all his files, all the key addresses. Basically a to-do list for ‘when it happens’. Because he knew. He felt it. Building up, painlessly but inexorably, so he put everything in order, as he always did. He was neither fearful nor unhappy about the inevitable but pragmatic to the end.

Wednesday my brother and I ‘got the call’. “Come in, I think you should be here”. He went back to sleep after getting showered and dressed and, basically, wasn’t waking up. I don’t think he wanted to. So we sat, we spoke to him, we held him, and he slept, but aware of our words by his minimal responses, nods. And at 3 o’clock, I was holding his hand as he took his last breath. It was a lovely, painless, peaceful end to a wonderful and long life. No-one could ask for better. Well they can ask but they ain’t gonna get it.

I was dry-eyed and at peace with it. Sat with him for a while. You know, just in case. Then I went to tell someone.

And that’s when the problem started. Because whoever I spoke to told me how lovely he was. The other residents, the carers, the managers and directors, how lovely, how polite, so nice and helpful and considerate and… lovely. And I’m supposed to remain in manly cool mode with all that? I had entered some kind of ‘emotional meltdown’ without even knowing as I had sat tearless in his room. And the trigger was niceness. People being nice, people saying nice things about him, how much they loved him.

After a really protracted ‘niceness’ session with the care home’s management team I was blubbing for all I was worth. And I said to my brother: ‘I’m fine, if only they wouldn’t be so fucking nice!’ Insult me, abuse me, anything but be nice. Please.

Rest in Peace, Moishe, our hearts are with you.

A xxxx