Reflections from a Dying Man: The Face of Regret

This is the second of a handful of posts I made on the passing of my Dad in November 2017 to share thoughts and reflections from my time sitting with him as he fought his last battle, over several weeks, in what we know locally as Cramlington hospital, in the North East of England.

As I process the death of my Mum, which was last Friday as I write this (19th March 2021), I was drawn to share this article, originally posted on Facebook, on this platform, as I'm acutely aware that I haven't shared this aspect of my thinking and history on LI. It's my earnest hope that this might help someone, somewhere on here.

I decided to call the series on FB, 'Reflections from a Dying Man' not to focus on my Dad's death, but to bring emphasis to his life and, above all, his capacity to think: I had some significant moments from reflecting on his life in this way.

It is my heartfelt wish that the thoughts & reflections in this article provide you with some benefit, and possibly that they may even cause you to focus ever more purposefully on What Matters Most to you.

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The Fear of Regret

In 2016, I wrote a couple of articles on the subject of regret or, more accurately on the FEAR of regret.

I spoke at length about the theory I have that fear of regret is actually our greatest fear…even greater than our fear of death.

However, I’d not really seen the face of regret at the time of death, not how it actually looks on a dying man or woman. So, that element of my notion about regret on our deathbeds was just that – theory.

I’ve been blessed with two fathers. My Mum divorced when I was very young but Dad #2 (Harry, who passed in Nov 2017) was very insistent on enabling Dad #1 (my ‘actual’ father) to be around and be part of our lives.

Dad #1 died from a heart attack when I was a teenager. I was out for the day while visiting him, so I wasn’t there when it happened, and it was totally unexpected.

I never really got the chance to chat to him about what he’d achieved, how he felt about his life, etc., etc. Truthfully, at that age, and with a father who was younger then than I am now, it didn’t really show up as a topic of conversation.

But it always nagged at me after he’d gone, particularly as I knew there were a lot of things he’d still wanted to do in his 50s and later life.

Unfulfilled Potential

Watching and listening to my Dad over the few weeks he spent in hospital before his death in Nov 2017 gave me fresh insight into the whole idea of regret, and how we deal with it.

As a young man, Dad had the same wonder about the world that anyone reading a typical Boy’s Own comic of the 1940s would have had: it was a fascinating place, full of exotic wonders, hugely interesting people and amazing experiences.

It was a window on all of humanity, and something that the older, more rounded and learned Harry would have loved to have experienced extensively, first-hand, of that I have no doubt.

But he never truly did. He never really got the chance to explore the edges of his potential.

A difficult early life breached into his early adulthood and then into marriage and responsibilities.

That took out a mind that had all of the leanings towards, and capabilities for, a career in medicine, something he talked about on and off over the years, and funnelled him straight into the printing trade in mid 1950s Glasgow, Scotland.

Reflecting back, he rarely travelled through his life.

Indeed, there were many events, things, people, places he wanted to experience that he never did.

No Regrets

Yet, as he saw the end of his 81 years on the planet come to a close he told me “I’ve no regrets, son.”

How could this be?

How can you go through life apparently missing out on so much and yet end up with no regrets?

Well, here’s my Dad’s take on it…(paraphrased, but as accurate as I can remember)

I never expected to be here (at 81 years old).

I’m grateful for Loretta (Mum),

for all of you, the times we’ve had and

the life I’ve had.

It’s been a long life, son. And a pretty good one.

I love all of you. I have wonderful memories. I’m happy with my life.

I’m at peace with things…”

And there it is.

Attitude, love and appreciation, not fear, loss or regret.

Knowing he was dying, the man chose to be at peace with what had gone before, to love and appreciate all the good, and to forgive (not forget) the not-so-good.

Three lessons for me from this:

1. Tell the people you love that you love them.

Like…now.

Don’t assume they know.

My Dad knew, but it still felt good (for both of us) to share that truth before we couldn’t anymore.

2. Set out to do ALL THE THINGS…but not everything.

Decide what you want to experience, understand WHY that moves and will drive you, then set things in motion to make it happen.

You can’t do and experience everything, so don’t try.

That way lies confusion and a mess that you don’t want.

Trust me on this...

3. Accept and appreciate…the small things as well as the big stuff.

My Dad made peace with his much smaller slice of Life than he’d wanted or planned for.

He learned to reflect on what he’d built, achieved, shared, loved…and screwed up, lost, missed…and appreciate it all.

That’s real wisdom, but it doesn’t have to come to you (or any of us) as late in life as 81 years of age.

Do What You Can

I still struggle with this from time-to-time, to be brutally honest, but I’ve been on that path for a fair old while and it gets easier and clearer with each passing year.

In the end, the face of regret could have been a tortured vision accompanied by a crippling feeling of loss.

Instead, it turned out to be wholly absent, replaced by humble and loving acceptance and appreciation.

But that doesn’t give you permission to be a passenger in life, at the mercy of what happens.

So, here’s my key learning from this:

Appreciate what you have while you strive for what you want.

And, whatever the outcome is, appreciate that too, knowing that you did what you could with what you had at the time.

Dino

(Pics are of Mum & Dad renewing their vows a few years ago, and Dad & I off to the theatre in the late 60s - I'd have been about 8 years of age)