Tarsh Te Rure and her dad Anthony Te Rure. This photo was taken after Tarsh received her moko kauae from taikā Turumakina Duley. “Dad held my hand the whole time and told me he was silently doing karakia.” (Photo: supplied)

When it became obvious that her dad was at the end of his life, Tarsh Te Rure decided to care for him herself at home, even after his death.

Moe mai rā e taku pāpā, kua wehe atu rā ki tua o te ārai.

My darlingest dad, Tony, passed away a fortnight ago. It was Wednesday, and just the two of us were at home. That’s how it often had been: just the two of us.

I was holding his hand as he slipped gently beyond the so-very-thin veil. I held the howling in my throat until I knew he was gone, but couldn’t hold back the tears as I watched him take his final breaths. Maisey Rika’s Karakia Whakakapi played quietly in the background as he left for his tīpuna. Tihei mauri ora. Tihei mauri mate.

It is a precious gift to leave te ao kikokiko, the physical world, peacefully and at an age that feels okay — a gift for the deceased but especially for those still here, the whānau pani. There was no such gift when my mother Marcia died at age 40, leaving behind my stepfather and four daughters, the two youngest only six and eight.

Tarsh (in blue on right) with her mum Marcia, dad Tony and younger sister. (Photo supplied)

Dad made it to 80 and had a beautiful passing at home. Not like with Mum, where a switch dictated her time of death at Wellington ICU. Of course, things could just as easily have gone that way for Dad too. Many moments are gifts not to be taken for granted.

The Monday morning before Dad died, we were together at the dementia care home where he had lived for eight months. I’d been with him 24/7 for two nights already, sleeping in the very cramped, wera rawa, extremely hot bedroom he’d returned to after 10 nights in hospital.

He’d been ka piki, ka heke, up and down, for about a month. For about a year before that, I suspect he’d been struggling with swallowing. By the time I went to stay at the care home, he had pretty much stopped eating, drinking, and talking. By Monday, I knew he was on his way kei tua. At that point, I was determined to get him home to Ōtaki.

Things quickly kicked into gear. Staff booked an ambulance, called in hospice support, and showed me how to move and wash Dad in bed and administer any necessary medication. I told him we’d be on our way soon, where the girls — Kewpee the ngeru, and Max the dog — would be waiting.

I’m forever grateful that Dad made it home as the final stop on his journey this side of the ārai. Even if only for one night.

Dad’s name was Anthony Te Rure. Occasionally with an ‘Esquire’ thrown in. If you will. According to him, he was a “real Ngāti Porou” with “a real Māori name”, and, apparently, “real Māori hands.”

You couldn’t always tell when Dad was being cheeky, cutting, or serious. Even towards himself. He was brought up by his grandparents at the pā among his Iritekura hapū on the East Coast. As a teenager, he was taken back to live with his Te Arawa mother and Maniapoto stepdad. He eventually met my mum in Palmerston North where they married and had me and my sister. After separating, Dad moved to Sydney, while Mum and us girls moved to Upper Hutt.

Australia was home to Dad for 40 years, and the first decade he was there, I’d see him regularly for holidays. But by the time I brought him back to live with me and my daughter in 2018, I hadn’t seen him for 20 years. As was sometimes his way, he’d fallen off the radar. Ngāti Porou, he iwi moke. Quite possibly, Alzheimer’s played a part, too.

Tarsh and her dad Tony at St Vincent’s hospital in Sydney, the first time they had seen each other in 20 years. (Photo supplied)

Having Dad with us was a crash course in Alzheimer’s dementia and what it means to care for an ageing parent. A parent who, after we lost touch, I thought may already have passed away. He was lost and then was found. I considered it a gift to have him in my life again.

And yes, it was also frustrating, exhausting, and just bloody hard. With the three of us in the whare, it was as if Alzheimer’s, menopause, and puberty had walked into a bar. Sometimes it did seem like a joke, but it wasn’t always funny. In saying that, Dad is the person I laughed the most with over these past six years.

Dad lived with us in Ōtaki for three years until he went to Gisborne. It wasn’t what I wanted but that’s what happened. At least there he was closer to his ūkaipō and whanaunga, somewhere people recognised him and his name.

Last year, though, I brought him back again. It’d been hard with cyclones and road closures. He was too far away. The cons started outweighing the pros. So, Dad came home to us for six weeks until I found a suitable place to look after him. By that stage, he was needing help with all his personal care, and my house wasn’t the best set up for doing that safely. And I was working full-time.

I didn’t mind taking care of Dad in that way though. It was my privilege to do those things. I think we’re meant to go out as we came in — totally dependent on those who love us.

In the same way, caring for him after he died felt like the most natural thing to do. Simply an extension of what had already been happening.

I’m not sure how prepared you can ever really be the first time you care for a deceased loved one, but I’d decided some time ago that modern chemical embalming and outsourcing death care to funeral directors wasn’t how I wanted to do things.

I think, for Māori especially, caring for our tūpāpaku ourselves just makes sense. We sleep beside them, talk to them, and continue to pour ourselves out to them for days after they’ve passed. Death is embraced as a normal part of living, and tangihanga is a gift that reflects that.

Of course, sometimes needs must, especially in the throes of grief. That had been the way with Mum. And certainly, Dad played a part in making his after-death care as easy for me as it could be. We had the privilege and privacy of being at home, and no huge gatherings of mourners or people paying their respects to manage.

Once Dad passed away, I reminded myself I had time. There was no need to panic. We had moved into a different kind of precious time. Although I knew I had to get his temperature down, I didn’t have to hurry. The manaaki mats for cooling him were in the designated freezer when I felt ready. I replayed Maisey’s songs.

I called my girl, and after her and my niece got back home, they sat with Dad while I looked for his favourite shirt. I’d put it somewhere safe, but classic, I couldn’t find it. We put a different one on and moved him on his mattress out of the sun. We slipped a new shower curtain beneath him before placing manaaki mats and kawakawa, tarata, and lemon balm around him. Later, a friend brought her diffuser and waitai from the moana.

Dad grew up as close to the moana as you can get. His happy place was walking by himself, and later with the dogs, beside the “open sea”. Salt water was what he needed.

Anthony Te Rure with Max. (Photo supplied)

The other niece arrived later with the moko. Bringing life and joy in the way only they can. We watched an anuhe crawl along the kawakawa beside Dad. When I picked up the leaf to take the caterpillar outside, the five-year-old squealed dramatically. Ironically, there’d been no such squealing about Dad. Her only reference to him being dead was that he was short and looked like a child. True. Kids have no filters. Mokopuna. Tīpuna. The same-same-ness!

Decisions had to be made about next stages. How long could he stay here? Could we make it to Waipiro or would cremation be best? In the end, logistics and practicalities prevailed. He would be cremated on Friday in Papaioea, and we would take his pūrehu home at a later stage, in consultation with his Iritekura whānaunga. So, only two nights with Dad.

There are beautiful taiao-friendly options for holding our tūpāpaku — including whāriki, waka mate, and cardboard coffins. We decided to shroud Dad. I wanted to wrap him in a calico drop-sheet because he was a painter and decorator by trade. But the best I could do was a simple bedsheet, held in place with a long strip of calico I found in the spare room. A friend made us a beautiful shrouding board.

The hapū village isn’t what it used to be for many of us, but whānau, friends, and colleagues showed up in so many ways. Companionship, koha, kai, admin, karakia, getting me to the moana, and stepping in to fill any gaps. We were never meant to do these things alone.

It was all very simple. Not easy. There were lots of decisions, ridiculous paperwork, and only me. But certainly, it was simple. The girls were amazing, doing what was needed, preparing the house, helping me with Dad, manaakitanga for whānau and manuhiri. Making a slideshow.

Dad’s cousin came on the bus from Porirua, and another made the long drive from the coast to be with us for pō poroporoaki. His sister and whānau arrived early the next morning. I’d waited for them before doing the shrouding.

Shrouding Dad was a heartbreaking goodbye. Letting go of his hand, still so soft and warmed from my holding, knowing I’d never hold his hands again — that was the hardest moment.

Then to the church two doors down where Dad had attended kori kaumatua exercise classes. A simple intimate “service” before the girls and I departed for the crematorium where a family friend met us for the final karakia.

Nā te hupe me ngā roimata, ka ea ai te mate.

*

When Dad’s death certificate arrived in the post on Tuesday, along with a nice card from the hospice peeps, I realised it had been exactly four weeks since we made it home for his last night.

Where did that month go? I’d had a string of days without tears but that day they just flowed. No rhyme or reason. Suddenly there they were, gushing out. Or welling up, teetering on the edge, and then just like that, they dissipated.

That morning I’d been reminded of dad’s expertise at hunting kōura. He’d search around in the rocks with his toes then dive down to get them. He had a hierarchy of what to bring home in the sugar bag. Kōura. Pāua. Kina. Bubus.

He reminded me of Forest Gump’s friend Bubba listing all the ways to eat shrimp. Or my friend Ngata listing all the colours of blue at Resene. Barbeque it. Bake it. Broil it. Sky blue. Fadey blue. Ocean blue.

Mum used to say she could’ve written a book about dad. I wish she had. And one about herself too would have been a good read. Moe mai rā e ōku mātua.

Hoki ki te ūkaipō e taku pāpā. Miss you. Love you.

Anthony Te Rure, where he loved to be — by the moana, with Max. (Photo supplied)

Tarsha (Tarsh)Te Rure (Ngāti Porou, Te Arawa, Ngāi Tahu) lives in Ōtaki with three young people, including her daughter. Over her lifetime, she has lived with more than 100 people, mostly in the lower North Island between Papaioea and Te Upoko o te Ika, and sometimes she writes as a form of therapy. Her mum passed away in 1989, and her dad passed away in February.

E-Tangata, 2025