stomach. Then he was given an electric pump to automatically drip food into him – building him up in preparation for the trauma of chemo-therapy.
The lump grew. It began to affect nerves: his eyes became crossed, and he had to wear a patch over one eye.
The last time I saw him I said I hoped the treatment went well, “So do I”, he replied. As I left his home for the last time, I hesitated and nearly went back in. I talked myself out of it, telling myself I would see him again seeing in a couple of weeks. Failing to make the most of the last time is a regret.
With surprising speed, he became more ill, and was hospitalised. I regularly spoke to his partner who became more and more scared as Dad became more ill. I tried to strike the right balance; offering to be there if need be. Dad’s speech deteriorated, so phone conversations were not possible.
I was at work when my brother called me to tell me Dad was unconscious. I arranged to drop off my work mate and drive straight to the hospital. “He might be dead tomorrow.” I said, feeling I should be more distraught.
I drove up with my Mum. I had never witnessed death, and didn’t know what to expect. When I drew open the curtains at Dad’s bed it was unpleasant. The man I had known all my life was sitting half upright, but not actually there. His eyes were staring and glazed, his body lurched as he drew spasmodic breaths. My brother recommended that I tell him I was there, but he thought he probably couldn’t hear us. I was shocked at the sight of my father, and I stalled momentarily before I sat down at the bed side. I spoke to Dad, but he gave no reaction. His breath was rasping. I made small talk with my relatives. Everybody’s eyes were red from bouts of crying. I looked at Dad’s partner, and she looked at me; we were both feeling the awfulness of where we were. I held Dad’s limp hands, they felt cool.
I moved between the ward and the café, drinking tea as an excuse to get some space. My brother said it would be minutes, rather than hours before he died. I decided I didn’t want to be there when it happened. It felt selfish but I didn’t want to remember him dying. I had decided what I wanted to say to Dad, and this would be my last chance, but I couldn’t form the words in front of my family. When there was a distraction from a nurse I took the opportunity. (I’m crying as I type). “Thanks Dad, I’ll see you later mate.” My brother looked at me; I left the ward, and went to cry in a side room.