An ambulance has been booked to transport my father from the hospital to the hospice. He’s agitated and shouting “Get me out of here.” The nurse tells me I may have to make my own way there, but I’m terrified of leaving him in this state, for the duration of the ride. The two women crew are incredible - they see my fear and stress and immediately tell me I can ride with them. We strap my father in and I sit right beside him, holding his hand and chatting to him, the entire journey, which is close to an hour. He is being taken to a hospice in the town where he lives - less than 10 minutes drive from his flat, it’s not ‘home’ but it’s the next best thing.
I’ve no idea what to expect - I’ve read extensively about hospices and watched documentaries about their work but actually being helped by them, as the relative of a dying patient? I’m clueless. As soon as we arrive, however, instinctively I know it’s going to be ok. Staff whisk my father away, to settle him in, whilst two volunteers on the front desk see me in tears and rush to comfort me. One gives me a big hug and the other makes me a cup of tea. I am so very grateful for their kindness - these really are the small things that make all the difference.
Soon after, I’m ushered into a compact, sparse room, where there sits the Hospice Director. He’s tall, thin, erudite-looking and has an extremely compassionate look on his face. He motions for me to sit down.
“Could you tell me what’s happening?” I ask.
He speaks calmly, quietly, rationally.
“Your father is dying.”
The room spins. I am momentarily at a loss for words. It’s like being punched in the gut. I sit there, quietly, absorbing the enormity of his words.
“How long do you think he has?” The kind doctor pauses, before answering.
“Not long. A few days at most”. In my head, I remember that It’s Tuesday afternoon.
“Will he make it to the weekend?”
“I don’t think that’s likely.” He is sombre but kind. Above me, there is a skylight and through it I hear a screeching sound.
“It’s the seagulls” says the doctor. “They’ve built a nest on our roof.”
I think to myself that my father would like that.
Half an hour later, I’m with dad again. They’ve bathed him, shaved him and I see a nurse slowly feeding him a couple of spoonfuls of scrambled egg. Tears well up in my eyes at this small act and the patience and care she is affording her task. He's in a bed covered in a patchwork quilt - it’s not the kind of thing you can buy easily. I later learn that all twelve beds in the hospice are adorned with them - they are hand-stitched by volunteers.
Photo courtesy of Pilgrims Hospice
I sit by his bed for a while, holding his hand, whilst he lies quietly, occasionally opening his eyes. I talk to him about all kinds of things - our trips to Chelsea football club when I was a kid, outings to Hyde Park and the British Museum with my sisters, his family business (my father was a picture frame maker, with the shop established by his great great grandfather, in the mid 1800’s). And, of course, I talk about the trip he made to Israel, to spend time with me, a few years back.
Soon, I realise he is in a deep sleep. His bed is next to a window, overlooking beautiful gardens (also kept in shape by volunteers). A nurse takes me out to the balcony and we begin filling in a long questionnaire, entitled “Getting to Know You.” Since my father is too ill to write, it’s up to me to answer. The questions are touching and ask about his likes and dislikes, what’s important to him and what his hobbies and interests are. He loves listening to BBC Radio 4 and I write that down.
I soon find out that this is what hospice care is all about - seeing the person in the bed, the individual with all their unique attributes. A few hours later, an occupational therapist will arrive with a radio to place beside his bed - yet again, I will be moved to tears.
There’s also an entire section in the form relating to plans to go home. I stare at it, vacantly. The nurse says to me, quietly:“You can ignore that - it’s not relevant” and she turns the pages. After I’ve finished writing, she goes inside and I stare up at the sky for a while, looking at fluffy clouds and listening to the seagulls squawking. The sun will soon set and the scene is glorious. When I return to his bedside, I see my father has opened his eyes.
“I want to go outside,” he whispers to me. And then he repeats himself. I don’t know if it’s possible but I’m going to do my best to ensure it. I find two nurses and make the request. They are hesitant - It’s the end of their shift and they have much to do. But then they see the tears in my eyes and I see them nod to each other.
They return shortly with some ‘rollers’ to put under the bed, so that moving him the short distance outside becomes easier. Gently, the bed starts to move and, in an instant, he’s being rolled outside. I see his eyes widen and, in a gesture that’s going to stay with me forever, I watch him raise his two thumbs to the nurses, to show his appreciation.
They put a brake on the bed and there my father and I sit together, quietly, me holding his hand, looking at the sky turn pink and then red. I don’t know it at this moment but it will be the last sunset he ever sees and these nurses have fulfilled the wish of a dying man.
My father has been placed into the arms of angels.
To be continued…