The end for Dad.
Sunday, June 1, 2014 @ 4:42 PM
On the ninth day of his hospital stay, Dad rallied a bit and we revived the plan for Mam to see him. She spent half an hour at his bedside. She said what he wanted to hear and she kissed him on the lips. He said something back to her. He then fell into a deep sleep. He hadn't seen her for 30 years. It was a magical moment.
He was more at peace after that and slept most of Thursday and Friday and into Saturday morning. Just after Andrea left the hospital to pick up her husband and children from Heathrow (they were flying in from Germany and were desperate to see their Grandad), he was suddenly in such pain and nothing that the nurses gave him seemed to help. After an hour of this, I told them to put him on the morphine. They reckoned there was no going back from that; he wouldn't wake again.
So by the time Andrea got back with the family at around 6 o' clock, I had to tell them the bad news that there was no chance of him seeing or speaking to them.
'I don't care,' her husband said, tearfully. 'As long as I can see him and the kids can.'
It was a blessing really, as he now looked so tranquil. The last time my children saw him his whole face had been contorted in pain.
The same Saturday I was pestering Adrian to change his 'plane ticket. He was due to come back from Spain on the Tuesday. 'At least come Monday,' I'd said. 'I need you here.'
The Sunday afternoon passed silently. I was sitting next to his bed quietly reading the Mail on Sunday when I came across an article about Bob Monkhouse. We hadn't been allowed to like him in our house. We were a Labour family and he supported Maggie Thatcher (so I wouldn't have found his joke funny: 'When I told everyone I was going to be a comedian, they laughed. Well, they're not laughing now!').
During the final stages of Bob Monkhouse's illness his wife had stayed constantly by his side. One night she was so exhausted that she went off to sleep for a couple of hours and when she got back to him he'd died. She'd been so sorry that she hadn't been there for him, but someone told her that people like to go 'on their own,' and will often wait until their loved ones have left, before feeling able to let go and go off on their journey.
As Dad was now sleeping constantly there didn't seem much point in staying during the nights anymore, so I suggested to Christopher and Andrea that we just visit daytimes from now on.
I was with him that last day until 8pm, but I was feeling nauseous and there were signs everywhere about patients on the ward being vulnerable to the slightest infection and stating that no-one should enter if they were ill in any way.
'Dad,' I said, 'I have to go. I feel sicky and they'll kill me if they catch me being sick in the loos. I'll be back first thing in the morning.'
There was no acknowledgement, but they say the hearing is the last thing to go. I don't remember if I kissed him - maybe not, with me feeling sick. And off I went.
The call came just before midnight. We knew what it was. After being told, Christopher and I got dressed and drove back to the hospital. We spent a few minutes with him, while the nurses got a bag of his personal effects together. He looked the picture of health; tanned, solid, robust. And I kissed him for the last time.