He Knew

One of my new collection of 20 autobiographical short stories entitled

Kill Me Now.

If you’d like to read another, leave a comment. 

Enquiries to: charlieadley1@gmail.com

He Knew

In glorious rural Berkshire, jugs of Pimm’s are topped with mint and cucumber.

There is laughter and lunch at the French Horn in Sonning.

Your entire family and many friends gather to celebrate your father’s 70th birthday.

The sun shines on the beautiful old coaching inn, nestled between ancient weeping willows on the banks of the Thames.

Your father stands to make his speech.

The masses hush.

After pursing his lips, there comes from this most lucid of men a long terrifying silence.

A crushing compassion falls upon you, as you watch him struggle to move his mouth. Your father remains stoic in expression, while hearts break all around the room.

After a while he regains control, and void of the cheeky aplomb you love so much, he delivers his words.

Since that most unwelcome arrival, you now know all about TIAs, these mini strokes that your father recovers from, over and over again. 

Each one robs him temporarily of the ability to control something: the movement of his jaw, which for a while viciously and spontaneously chews his own cheek; his right arm, which suddenly shoots up in the air and waves around, as if he were a schoolboy desperate to attract teacher’s attention.

Each time a new behaviour appears, you long for the day when that symptom eases, not only for him, but also because of the pain you suffer by seeing him out of control.

Living in Ireland, you have developed a phobia of the phone. As soon as you hear your sister’s voice, you know that for who knows how long, your life must be put on hold.

You’re going to England on a flex-ticket, packing your bag with practiced precision and speed, desperate to arrive before Dad dies.

Despite the fact you’ve felt this so many times, each hits you like the first.

You’ve slept on family sofas, in your mum’s spare room, in cheap hotels, and spent long terrible days with your mother and siblings, sitting vigil in his private hospital rooms.

Over these 12 years of your father’s decline, there have been moments of humour, like when he regains consciousness after surgery, and oblivious to the presence of his loved ones, appears excited, only because the Chelsea manager is on the TV.

“Moo - Moo- Mourinho!” he splutters.

You laugh in relief, possibly privately hurt in a small yet personal way, because he notices Jose before you.

Other times you laugh out of embarrassment, because your father’s pain threshold is the lowest of any human who ever walked the Earth.

You want your father to be a hero, but it proves impossible not to squirm when he responds to a kindly nurse, gently cleaning his face with a warm flannel:

“Torture! She’s torturing me!”

 

All he ever wants is to go home, yet each time he does the challenges become greater, more testing for your mum, so back he goes to hospital, where you watch him close his eyes tightly, as if in complaint to the universe, and drop his chin onto his chest.

Arriving at the door of his hospital room on any given morning, in who knows which of so many hospitals, you and your mother are confronted by the saddest of sights.

This bombastic, jocular and opinionated man sits in the chair beside his bed. 

Instead of looking out of the window or reading a book, he chooses to bow his upper body so far forward, that the crown of his head presses down on the trolley-table in front of him.

His eyes are locked shut, his face wearing three hundred and forty seven varieties of angst.

You put your arm around your Mum and give her a reassuring hug, because if you find this sight sad, you cannot imagine how it must be hurting her.

A kidney specialist tells you two years ago that you should arrange for Dad to move to a hospice.

“It’s only going to be a matter of days.” says the consultant, but still he survives.

Looking at this man who made your life possible, you wonder why he hangs on.

For you, the moment your father lost his joie de vie, he was gone. Without that sparkly glint in his eye, which reassures you he loves you, (your parents only award the ‘L’ word to pets) this tragically wrung-out figure appears to have no desire to live.

You assume he must be driven to survive purely by terror of the alternative.

You decide you absolutely never want children: not if your dotage will force them to endure this horror.

You hope that when your time is up, you will not hang on through mere fear, and then you mock yourself, because you have been taunted by your own mortality ever since your first pubic hair.

The most painful part of Dad dying slowly is that you have to keep on leaving.

You've given up your job back in Ireland, so that you can come whenever you need to, and stay as long as possible.

Yet eventually you always have to go home, and it is these times that test your heart.

Will you ever see him again?

Will he be dead before you return?

On a Friday night 18 months ago you decide to deal with this trial.

Before you drive your rental car through the snowy night darkness to Luton Airport, you decide to say a last goodbye.

You know of course that you might well see him again.

You also understand that you cannot continue to torment your heart and twist your soul, by repeatedly arriving home in dread of missing his death.

You go up to your father in his bed, and throw your arms over his chest, forcing your right hand around and under his neck.

He awakes and you whisper

“I’m going now, Dad. Good bye. Shabbat Shalom.” 

and he replies

“Shabbat Shalom. Thanks for coming. Drive carefully.”

and you hug him tightly and then climb off the bed.

You hold your breath along the hospital corridor, in the lift, and as you briskly walk through reception. Outside, the cold air freezes your lungs.

You find your rental car, close the door, sit in front of the steering wheel and let out a wail; a crescendo howling cry of pain.

For ten minutes, twenty minutes, who knows or cares, you sit in your car and cry, heaving with loss and misery.

You’ve just said goodbye to your father, and although you see him many times after that, there is wisdom in that move.

It eases your pain, but now the time has come for the final farewell.

 

The nursing home gardens are truly splendid. Gravel paths surround trimmed lawns, gently sloping towards crescent flower beds, flush with roses, crimson and pink.

You’re unable to see beauty.

In the grey Victorian mansion above, your father is drifting lethewards, floating in and out of a morphine coma.

You struggle to move your aching legs through the stifling London heat. The humid still air is a rich soup of lavender.

You breathe deep its comforting scent.

You’re taking a break, doing a few laps of the garden, because you can’t sit there beside him forever.

Turning at the edge of the lawn, you head up the gravel path, back towards this halfway house.

You go to the Gents and wash your face with cold water. Staring at yourself in the mirror you contemplate what you’re about to do.

Tomorrow you must leave once more for Ireland.
In two weeks you’re getting married.

You feel sure this will be the last time you see Dad alive.
You steel yourself and enter his small quiet room.

Beyond the tall sash windows the garden glows golden.

You move a chair to sit parallel with your father. Your back is against the wall beside his head.

You reach down with your left hand and lift his limp warm right hand, intertwining your fingers with his, hoping he might wake, respond in some way, acknowledge your presence and thereby give you the chance to say goodbye one final time.

But he doesn’t.

He sleeps on, lost to consciousness.

His lips part like a baby’s kiss as he exhales gently

... pwaaaahh...

You sit, hold his hand and find comfort in the peace and privilege of being there at his side.

In the midst of the turbulence of weddings, illness, life and death, you appreciate these calm minutes.

You wish your father knew you were there, but he doesn’t. The nurse told you that he was on such a heavy dose he could barely keep breathing.

You accept that being beside him is enough.

Finally the hour comes when you must meet others, leave your father forever and return to the brash world.

“Dad, it’s Charlie. I’ve got to go now. I’m heading back to Galway tomorrow, to organise our wedding party. I love you, Dad.”

As you rise out of your seat, your father suddenly grips your intermingled fingers, holding them tight to his.

You look straight away into his eyes, but they are still clamped shut.

Nothing stirs, yet he has heard you.

He has heard your words and knows you are there. He continues to grip your hand with such force it slightly unsettles you.

Reaching across his body you plant a long, lingering and most loving kiss on his forehead.

He feels your lips on his skin. 

He exhales. 

His hand relaxes and lowers to his side.


©Charlie Adley
27.01.2023