I then climb into bed and sleep, but only for a few hours. This will become the pattern for the coming weeks - when I do manage to sleep, it is brief, fitful, constantly interrupted. Despite my physical exhaustion, I’m waking almost every morning in the wee small hours with a start. For a split second, all is well with my world but then the horror of my situation hits me like a freight train.
And then - in the blink of an eye - it happens. Silence. I stare at his face, disbelieving, willing him to breathe just one more time. But the gasping has stopped. I reach over to take his pulse but can feel nothing. I call a nurse. She stands over him and does the same thing. “He’s gone, my love.” I cannot take the words in; I am not prepared for this moment. I stare at my father, whose eyes are closed but whose mouth has fallen open. He looks peaceful. Another one of the angels returns with a single red rose, which she places next to his pillow…
To my disbelief, she tells me that he’s deteriorating very fast and he may well die in the next hours or the following day. I look at her, incredulous. This fast? She reassures me that he’s definitely not in pain then breaks the news to me that he’s not sleeping - in fact, in the last hour he has actually slipped into unconsciousness. “It’s very likely now that he won’t open his eyes again, or respond to your hand squeezes.” I don’t believe her. I am convinced he will open his eyes one more time. There cannot be this little time left. There cannot be.
“Your father is dying.” The room spins. I am momentarily at a loss for words. It’s like being punched in the gut. A few moments pass. “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. They’ve built a nest on our roof.” I think to myself that my father would like that.
I am caught off guard when I see him. He looks terrible. I do my best to hide my shock, pulling up a chair, forcing a smile and taking his hand. My father recognises me immediately and seems astonished that I’m standing next to him. He can’t speak properly - he’s slurring his words - nor can he sit up. He is utterly helpless and fights to get his words out…
“Dad, I came to see you.” I squeeze his hand tightly and he responds in kind. Then he whispers, almost inaudibly, “Get me out of here…”
