Dear friends,
I am reaching out to you after a long while, and I don’t even know how to start. Our fight for Peťo’s life is over. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but our beloved dad Peťo is no longer with us. My hope vanished in one second with his last breath. I still can’t believe that despite the immense support we received from family, friends, and even strangers, the power of prayer and the rosary, it still happened.
It has been two weeks since I sat for hours by his bedside, holding his hand, believing he would make it. That his end couldn’t come, that something like this couldn’t happen to us. He was a man full of strength, always in a good mood, smiling, and ready to spread love around him. Why should he have to end his journey in this world? But Peťo hadn’t been that way for a few months. He could still smile and love radiated from him even when he couldn’t speak. But his strength and energy had been fading in recent months. Although I perceived in the background that his body was being destroyed by illness, I still believed it could be stopped and regenerated. That with time, he would again be our cheerful and loving dad, who would embrace us all with the most beautiful smile, and we would feel his strength and positive energy again. Now I have to believe that it won’t be that way anymore. Oh, how hard it is to believe that. How hard it is to imagine that he is no longer and will never be again. Never!
I don’t know how children do it, that they can so quickly process and accept the fact that daddy is in heaven now, waiting for us with a smile for a hug. Although I know that deep inside they need to come to terms with it, each in their own way, they can live fully on the outside. But I am somehow bleeding. The hole that was left in my heart after Peťo’s departure is bleeding terribly and drains my strength to fully engage in any activity. I know it’s fresh and it takes time.
It was Monday, July 1, and the children’s vacation had officially started. The hot days were picking up speed. But Peťo’s fever was also picking up, which couldn’t be brought down. However, I got chills when the palliative care doctor told me over the phone that there was probably inflammation of the central brain and the end was coming. I didn’t know when. Minutes, hours, days? My head was flooded with a million uncoordinated thoughts. What all needs to be resolved, arranged, said... but somewhere in the background, I kept thinking: “This is unnecessary panic, he will make it, a miracle will happen.” I was pulled out of this by the nurse's words: “Don’t you want to call a priest?”
The priest came, the children left. But before that, they stroked daddy to make him feel better. For the last time. Tobiáš even managed to tell daddy the most beautiful words a child can say to a parent: “You are the best daddy in the whole world. No one will ever have a better one, nor can they. I love you.” Peťo, though in a fever, with his eyes closed, felt the touches and words of his firstborn and, as a sign of his love, grabbed his hand with his healthy hand and stroked him. For the last time.
Since the children were well taken care of outside the house at that time, I had the space to devote all my time to Peťo. It was the most precious time that no one could outweigh with tons of gold. I am grateful that I could hold his hand for hours and stroke him, change his compresses, and whisper to him whatever came to my mind at that moment. My body didn’t feel exhaustion, so I reluctantly went to bed at two in the morning when a dedicated person urged me to do so. A nurse who was voluntarily with us 24 hours for several days, without any claim for a reward, to help me take care of Peťo in those hardest moments. I went to bed only on the condition that she would call me immediately if anything happened. She came at five in the morning and said, “Come.” I had never experienced a worse feeling before. I ran down the stairs, not knowing what to expect. Peťo’s breaths were hoarse and irregular. With each one, I prayed and waited for the next. The oximeter showed a pulse of 165 and saturation of 65. Values hardly compatible with life. At such a moment, one cannot even focus on prayer. Every second, hoping for improvement, telling oneself that it would be a real miracle if it happened right now.
I changed Peťo’s compresses, which I soaked in water from the Marianka spring (a pilgrimage site near Bratislava). His reaction surprised me. The cold compress was obviously not pleasant at first, but I was pleased that he was reacting. After a few minutes, he started breathing more regularly. To the touch, it seemed the temperature was dropping. My heart rejoiced, “A miracle! It’s happening!” A huge sense of peace, hope, and expectation came into me, wondering what the next few minutes would bring. My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a foreign phone, to which Peťo responded with a groan. I went to silence the phone so it wouldn’t disturb us. When I returned to Peťo, I realized he had not taken another breath. It was July 3, 2024, 8:32 in the morning.
Today it has been two weeks. Two weeks without him. I haven’t yet managed to come to terms with what happened because there were many duties in front of me. But now I am beginning to come to terms with it. And it hurts. The worst thing a mother can face is how to tell the children that their beloved daddy has died.
We have managed the first step. We will manage the next ones too. Because it’s all for one, and one for all.
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