When my father died I lost the ability to live
Six months ago, on 9 October 2018, it was a beautiful and unusually warm day in my native city of Paris. There, in the leafy surroundings of a palliative care centre, my father took his last breath.
I was there with my husband. Our three year old, playing in the room next door, was blissfully unaware of what was happening. We had been in France for five weeks and had spent a lot of time with my father. I remember thinking “this is hard, but I am strong, I’ve got this”. I helped organise his funeral, stayed with my mum a few weeks after he passed away and then flew home to Sydney.