When I hear Mum’s ringtone, my stomach lurches. I could kill that sixth sense.
Mum explains that Dad has taken ill. The diagnosis is clear.
Now no one can hear the C word and not feel scared. I am no exception. It pains me to think of what lies ahead, for all of us. Questions sprout, the most important of which is, how long?
‘Well, the doctor didn’t mention that,’ says Mum.
‘Why didn’t you ask?’
‘I don’t know really…’
Mum’s voice fades out. Am I the only one worrying about this? With time sifting from Dad’s body, the moment for decisions is now. One day will be his last. Is he aware of that? Has he done everything he wants to do? I book a flight and return to my childhood home the next day.
‘A bucket list? Your dad doesn’t want anything like that,’ she whispers, shaking salt over her chips, whilst Dad is in the bathroom.
‘Unless he is happy as he is. Is he though? There are loads of things he could still do. Are you sure he doesn’t want to achieve one more dream?’
‘I’m sure he is very happy with his life, darling.’ She laughs, but her eyes are sparkling with tears.
Time is running out. And what can you do? There is no stopping it. No tugging a string to wind it back in, like a lead on an overexcited puppy.
No pulling, but grasping, yes.
Hope is the invisible thread that binds our family together and prevents us fraying at the edges, as we venture through life with the disease.
Blood tests, transfusions, and meetings with the oncologist all become part of Dad’s routine. Mum’s routine involves answering my firing questions. How did he sleep last night? Has he eaten? Is he in pain? Does he want anything? When’s the next appointment?
Sometimes we row.
‘Mum, why are you telling me this now instead of when the doctor told you?’ I say, because the mind binges on the absence of news and thoughts fire up – dark ones.
‘Sorry, love. I didn’t want to spoil your weekend.’ And she agrees to keep me updated going forward.
Hope offers a hand to grasp onto through the ups and downs. The alternative is being left behind, alone, crushed by the weight of our darkest thoughts.
We each take time out of our lives to spend quality time with Dad, time much overdue. I watch him finish his fish and chips, slide his knife and fork together and lean back in his chair.
‘Hey, Dad, you’ve left peas on your plate,’ I complain after counting all fifteen. He picks up the cutlery and scrapes the peas together until the plate is empty. I feel a crack in my heart. Dad isn’t a fan of vegetables. Is he eating them now for nutrition, to enable the body to go that little further, or is he doing it for me? I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth and suck in my tears.
Life rolls on.
At times mum will comment on the paleness of his skin, or how slowly he stepped out of the car that day. Later, we laugh at the results of Dad’s shaving ban: his rapid resemblance to Billy Connolly, the effect of the chemotherapy having so far spared his lovely bone white hair.
Seasons change.
‘He is doing great, don’t you think? The doctor said Dad’s bloods are brilliant. Who’s doing all the praying? He’ll be back to his old self in no time.’ We smile, agree and convince each other there is little wrong with him. Have the doctors made a wrong assessment?
The worst of it all is the fog we’re stumbling through on this unknown pathway. There is confusion, blindness to the truth. But when someone you love is ill, there is no option to give up.
Sitting opposite Dad, I notice the lines on his face like grout. Life has left its mark. In many ways, I see them for the first time. He is no young fellow. 81 summers and time knows. Still, it’s always too soon.
I want to throw him a notebook and pen, and shout: Go on, write it all down. Tell me how to live to be 81? What must I do when life is tough? How do I live without my dad?
Instead, I talk about the weather.
Am I even thinking about Dad or is this all about me – the imminent orphan me? I should be ashamed, demanding life’s answers like a cheating school kid. But I can’t ignore these emotions and the racing questions. So many questions and I can’t ask a single one. Guilt, there’s another emotion to add to the overwhelming list with fear, anger and sadness.
The thing about hope is that there is no guarantee of a nice destination. Nevertheless, it runs by your side like a friend, as life drags you along. I write these words as a daughter and an adult who knows grief is coming, and that a way through must be found.
Perhaps these words prove it’s already here. Although it’s hard, I’ll keep writing because this is what I do. This is how I search for the answers.