We made it. You and I both.
Today I can say, I survived the worst year of my life. I didn’t thrive.
I did not thrive.
But I’m here.
A year ago today, a doctor came to my parents house, and told me my father might not survive the night. She was slight, fragile in her manner. I assumed her to be new at her job. Perfectly competent. Holding her own in a room where my father was in the middle of an Alzheimers mania outbreak. I saw her notice my mattress on the floor beside his recliner, and me, unwashed, unkept, full of Valium and champagne. An attempt at celebration. “Should I take him to hospital?” She motioned me away from my father to get a moment of privacy, knowing well that he couldn’t understand anything anyway. “You could take him in if you like. It’s really about what’s best for you at this point. They’ll probably sedate him if he gets confused or alarmed.” For a moment, that flashed before me. I could see him in a hospital gown, wandering the halls, pacing the corridors, screaming for the exit. I’d seen it before. I’d seen him leave his own home out of fear. Seen him walk for miles on his eighty six year old feet, desperate to find his own safety. Which he never found.
So we sat. Jools Holland blared from the television pushing the newest absolute nonsense coming out of the music industry. Dad was fully dressed, hat and all, ready to leave at a moment’s notice, as he was “late for a meeting” in London with his accountant. I never met Alex Chalkley but his name became a sort of levity in our house. For months, dad would get a briefcase ready and head for the hills, Chalkley’s name under his breath. We would have to tell lies just to keep my dad safe. “Oh, Alex called this morning actually dad. He can’t make it today, but he says he’ll call to reschedule.” Dad was always disappointed. Whatever this meeting was in his mind, he was really looking forward to it.
I took a photo of my father. On what I thought was going to be his last night. I looked at it a couple of times since his passing, wishing it had been the night he had gone. If nothing else, to have spared him of the coming 15 days which would scar us all forever. I took more photos over the two weeks to come, some of which I haven’t been able to look at. But I did want to know I could, if I ever needed to. Videos of him squeezing my hand, photos of my husband and dog sat beside him. I didn’t believe he would go quietly. And of course, he did not.
What followed was harrowing. Some people reading this will know. I’m sorry for that. The deterioration will haunt the rest of my life. New Years Day- he lost the use of his legs. The fifth- he ate his last food. The seventh- full morphine ahead. The fifteenth- lights out. Did you know a body can go ten days without water? Besides us rubbing wet sponges around his lips and gums, he took nothing in. He bit down on the sponges now and again, battling with us for control. Almost choked to death once. Maybe he was trying to take himself out. Wouldn’t surprise me. As a year approaches since his death, my biggest fear is that he was in agony. That he was afraid. By the time the last minute of his life arrived, his eyes were slightly more open than they had been for the days before, like he was trying to see me. He looked afraid. I grasped his hand with the truest intention. “I’m right here dad.” I have managed to since convince myself that he wasn’t afraid, but entering a new room with intrigue. Maybe he could see his mother, who he had been calling out for for so many days.
We aren’t supposed to talk about it. The reality of death. Even though, we will all face it ourselves, and most certainly face the death of a number of loved ones. I’m maudlin, to discuss it. I’m morose, to take and look at photos of my dying father. But I disagree. To be present, to hold his hand, to cry for him now… it has all been the greatest privilege of my life so far. Would I do it again? A hundred times over again, without hesitation.
Here is to the end of the longest, darkest year of my life. Good riddance. Thank you for all you have shown me. With gratitude, I bow out.
voguepoet.