What's the matter princess?

Diarmuid spent six nights in Marymount Hospice. We slept in the hospice with him. Just 24 hours before he was moved there from the hospital we thought he was coming home and would start chemotherapy a couple of weeks later but instead he was moved to a hospice to die.

My two boys (15 & 17) knew everything that was going on but we hadn't told our 7 year old daughter yet that her Dad had cancer because his prognosis was 18-24 months so there was no need to tell her yet. 

Now, in the hospice, one of the most pressing issues was the fact that she didn't know how ill he was. The boys and I had only found out that morning that his time left was very short.

While they would normally break the news of cancer to a young child over a period of weeks, Aisling would need to be told urgently.

A team consisting of a counsellor, two doctors, a nurse, a chaplain, myself, my sons and my brother, Chris, sat in a room with Aisling to explain to her what was happening. 

The doctor and the counsellor asked Aisling to describe what had happened to her Dad. She told them how a few weeks ago he wasn't feeling well and he had seen a doctor and was vomiting and sore. They listened and validated every word. Then they told her about cancer — how there are bad cancer cells and that even though it's often fixable, Diarmuid's particular type of cancer was very bad. They said that they had done everything they could but, at this point, all they could do was ease his pain.

Aisling stared from them to me, to her brothers, to her uncle. She was mute. I could see the realisation slowly dawn. Her little face was full of desperation — she so badly wanted someone to say, "But...", as in, “But of course he'll be okay", or, “But he'll go home soon". There was total silence in the room. Then she looked at me for an answer. I caught her hand, put my arm around her, and I said, “I think that even though the doctors have tried everything... I think Daddy is going to heaven". She turned white. Her innocent little face fell to pieces. The tears poured out of her. Everybody cried — the nurse, doctors, counsellor, me, Chris, my sons, Aisling. The tears flowed freely. Everyone hugged her in turn including her big brothers. Then she urgently wanted to leave the room. She said, "We must tell my Nanas. We must tell everyone. They should know".

Across the hall there was a day room where my family and friends waited that whole week, taking turns to support us and to visit Diarmuid. At that moment Aisling ran into the day room with tears pouring down her face — she threw herself into the arms of her auntie and her grandmothers and said, "My Daddy's going to heaven, my Daddy has to go to heaven". Then she sobbed and sobbed and she ran down the corridor to her Dad's room shouting, "I have to see Daddy". I followed. 

She threw her arms around him and cried her heart out. Diarmuid gave her a big smile, rubbed her hair and said, "Hey, what's the matter, princess?" She looked at me, looked back at him, and instinctively knew that he didn't know he was dying. She didn't mention heaven. She just said, "Daddy you have cancer". He said, "Yes, but I'm fighting it, princess". He still thought that chemotherapy would be happening. She hugged him tightly and let the tears flow. He looked at her and looked at me and I think in that moment he knew his life was ending.

Four days later Diarmuid passed away with Emmet holding his right hand and Daniel holding his left hand and me rushing into the room as he took his last breath. Within minutes of his dying, Aisling came into the room (she had been out for a walk with her auntie), and I knelt down and told her, "Daddy has gone to heaven, my love". She cried and held him and, along with her brothers, myself, our family, our closest friends, we stayed with him all day, saying our goodbyes.

She sleeps in my bed and I look at her sweet innocent face as she sleeps and I'll tell you something. There is no pain worse than the pain of watching your children's hearts break. My boys too. My handsome wonderful boys. Sobbing over their Dad's body as he passed from this world. It was just so awful. It IS just so awful. This pain... the agony of watching your children yearn for their beloved Dad... it's indescribable.