My Dad Was Nearly James Bond

by Des Bishop

  It is dramatic and it was not a direct translation from my dad’s life, but that didn’t matter. My dad was about to die and he saw many things in a dramatic way, and there were way too many comparisons with his own life for that to be a coincidence. Even the way Ireland appears as this idyllic place in the story is part of my dad’s fantasy. My father always saw Midleton as a place of refuge from any turmoil he would feel later in life. It was where he went to escape, both in reality and in his own head.

  Working on the musical was very healing, and he stayed at it from September 2010 until shortly before he died. He changed the title to Secrets and tried to think of the story in terms of the all-too-common tale of the poison that silence has brought to Irish society. He wrote a new song called ‘Redeem Me’, about Michael singing to the heavens after the death of Ned and the rejection of his daughter.

  Stay with me tonight, Lord.

  Stay with me tonight.

  Stay with me, oh stay with me

  In my hour of need.

  Those were the opening lines of the song. He recorded it in his bed, two weeks before he died. Ed Torres put it together and, less than a week before he died, he was able to listen to it. I was not home yet, but my brother filmed my father listening to it. He was already heading towards death, and he looked as if he was being freed to let go. In his head the toll had been paid and the barrier had risen. It had been his final wish to record another song in the musical, and it was so great that it was a song about redemption.

  Ed Torres said to my dad in the room that day, ‘You did it, Mike, you did it.’ He certainly did. I will always be grateful to Ed for giving my dad his dying wish. We gave Ed the Ovation guitar as a gift from my dad after he died. He will always have that to remind him of my dad and the 1980s.

  Funny that, despite the things she did, in the end my dad and his mother both went out singing.

  39

  JOURNAL, 11 JANUARY 2011, DUBLIN

  I rang home last night at about 8 p.m., knowing that my dad had been due to start chemo again yesterday after an extended break. I also knew that he was getting weaker and none of us were sure if he had the strength for the fight anymore. I ring home pretty much every day, but I knew that this call was probably more important than normal.

  My father answered the phone, which was just luck, really. All it meant was that my mother had stepped out. There was nothing strange about the fact that he had answered. It was lucky for me, though, because I was glad to get the news directly from him; he told me that he had not gone ahead with the chemo. This didn’t surprise me, because he was so weak. I did not expect that he would tell me that he had decided to stop getting chemo altogether, though. He told me that he had told the oncologist that he did not see any point and that it was obvious that he was getting worse, regardless. He seemed to be happy with the decision. He stated very clearly, ‘I am not laying this on you, I am not laying this on the family and I am not laying this on the doctors; this is my decision.’ He said that very strongly. As always, my father’s main concern was to make sure everyone was comfortable.

  I thought it was an exceptional thing to say, because in his case it was so empowering for him. I actually remember saying very soon after that (but perhaps not in reply) that he was now in control of his own life. There would be no more being pricked and prodded looking for a vein, no more blood transfusions just to have the strength to go to the bathroom, and no more having to go to the chemo place. It’s amazing how deciding that you are now ready to let the disease take over brings a relief and a sense of freedom. That’s how it seemed my dad felt. He said all the right things. He was looking forward to the hospice people helping him to be comfortable. He was looking forward to not feeling nauseous all the time. He was hopeful he might get a bit of energy back in the short term before the cancer did its worst. I guess in many ways he was relieved that the fight was over and he could just relax.

  He told me the oncologist had warned him there would be pain. She gave him a very detailed account of what he could expect, so I don’t think his positivity was in any way a denial. He can have no idea what it’s going to be like, and neither can we, so I think his attitude is great. Never is the one-day-at-a-time mantra more important than at times like these. When life changes so quickly every day, all you can really know is what you have to deal with today. Now we know time is short and I hope we can stretch each day out to feel like months, so these last few months will feel like forever.

  I encouraged my father not to get chemo at all after the cancer started to grow again. Back in August, he delayed chemo for an extra week so as to spend more time in Edinburgh. I suggested he should not go back at all but just enjoy the time the first months of chemo bought him. Again, when he got weak in the last month, I pushed hard that he should consider giving up the fight. I wanted him to enjoy whatever time was left and not spend the whole time fighting an unwinnable battle. To be honest, if he had told me back in November 2009 that he did not want to fight, I would have been more than able to accept his decision. I am glad he fought then, though, because these last fifteen months have been the best times we have ever had together, but I had not been a big fan of aggressive treatment for a man of my dad’s age who has lived the life that he has lived.

  Yet after all my bravado and rational suggestions about the imminence of death and treatment, yesterday’s news was difficult to accept. Because even though I wanted my dad to stop treatment, once he told me he had made that decision I knew he would die quite soon. The phase of hope was over and now all that was left was preparing for him to be gone. All that was left was the end.

  This is the part I know nothing about. Up until now I have spoken with great confidence about the certainty of my father’s death. But it was academic because I was protected by the uncertainty of how long he had left. Now there is no more pretending and the reality of that hit me hard last night.

  I had so many emotions. I wish they were all feelings of compassion for my father, but they were not. I felt sad and happy that my dad was comfortable with his decision. There was something uplifting about the honesty of the situation. I used to hate hearing him speak about living for years and knowing it was not true but not wanting to break his spirit. I felt regretful almost immediately that I did not push harder for him to stop the chemo.

  The main thing I felt was that we could have been done with this part already. It seems a strange thing, but that was honestly one of the things I felt. I felt that I was much less prepared now than I was at this time last year. I resented the fact that after pretty much a year of living at home – apart from a trip to Australia and our trip to Edinburgh – I had to go back on tour and make some money. Yet now seemed to be the most important time to be home.

  Most of all I just wanted to be home. I did not want to have to ask my family for information on the phone. I did not want to hear about my aunts and uncles being at the house when I could not be there. I just wanted to be home so I could rub my dad’s head and tell him that everything was going to be all right. It was so frustrating that I would have to wait till Sunday.

  I wanted to talk to my mother too. She had fought this moment from the start, but she had come to accept it in the last few weeks as she saw how it was literally becoming impossible for her to even get my dad out of bed to get to the chemo place to keep up the fight.

  I was very emotional and she was not: that is her way. I can only imagine how much more difficult it is for her. Of course I will be there for her, but she would never let you know that she needs help. You have to try to help her despite herself. I think, though, when I finally spoke to her yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I wanted her to help me. At least I wanted to share the sadness together just for a moment, like when we found out the news a year and a half before. I just wanted to be vulnerable together like a family should be. But she was not feeling that way at that time. She will fight that honesty until the end. I hope she will b
e all right. I hope the same for myself.

  JOURNAL, 12 JANUARY 2011, DUBLIN

  Phone conversation with my father a day after he decided to stop chemo, sometime around 3 p.m.:

  Dad: I just want to spend the next few days in bed and try to come to terms with all this.

  Des: Come to terms with what, exactly?

  Dad: Well, I know the end is coming now. I can see him. [Puts on Irish accent] ‘Ah, there you are. There you are, ya hoor, ya.’

  Des [laughing]: Sure. ‘Put that scythe down and let’s have a chat.’

  Dad: I suppose telling you to fuck off isn’t going to change anything?

  JOURNAL, 17 JANUARY 2011, FLUSHING, QUEENS, 2.22 P.M.

  I can hear my dad’s voice in the next room talking to a friend of his. There is clearly more strength in it now than those days last week when we spoke on the phone. It’s great to think that some of his weakness over the last month was more related to the chemo than the progression of the disease.

  Of course, it brings with it doubt about the decisions that were made. I have no doubt, but my mother thinks now that we have not done enough. She is worried that we did not try clinical trials. I am not worried about that because, to me, I see him feeling better as testimony to the fact that we made the right decision about stopping treatment altogether. Anyway, there is no point in talking about it because he is comfortable with the decision he made, and that is all that matters. I just don’t want anyone in the family to be tormented by thoughts that we did not do enough.

  My dad isn’t great at just enjoying feeling better, either. As soon as he started to feel better he was talking about how he was going to go on for years. I just let him believe it because what’s the point in putting a downer on things when he is feeling good?

  It’s nice to be home. It’s not that emotional, I must say. It just feels right to be here and to be able to help out. We completely reorganized the bedroom upstairs, as the hospital bed came today. So now my mother sleeps on a single bed and my dad has his own hospital bed that can be adjusted electronically. He fought having one brought home for so long, but now that it is here he seems to be very comfortable in it.

  He does not like anything that suggests that the fight is over. He is naturally a very competitive man and he wants to go down fighting the best fight. Just because he has given up treatment does not mean he has given up the fight.

  He has new goals to live for. He wants to be around for when it gets warmer so we can wheel him around Kissena Park. He wants to see his second grandchild, who will not be born until May. He wants to record a few of his songs that he wrote for the musical …

  A few hours later …

  I don’t know how it happened, but I ended up reading to my dad some of the proposal for this book that I sent to the publishers. I really just wanted to know for sure that he was comfortable with the idea of me writing a book about his life. I am not sure if it was a good thing to be reading him my innermost thoughts about his dying, but if I can’t read them to him, why would I be comfortable with anonymous masses reading them? So much of this is about his legacy, so I might as well let him know what I am feeling. It’s the much more important thing. I read him a section about him hoping to find the spot where he wants his ashes spread in Ballycotton.

  ‘Why must we wait till the end to get to this point? Why must we have to be here to feel this?’ Those were his words when I read to him the line, ‘I will make sure that he knows that his final resting place will be the place of his dreams.’

  He then repeated a few times, ‘You’ll find it, Des, a glorious patch of green.’ He often repeats things for dramatic effect, but I am impressed with the strength of emotion he feels for Ballycotton. He is desperate to be connected to Cork and to Ireland at the end.

  I then pulled out Google maps and showed him Ballycotton on the satellite map. He was delighted to be looking at it again. It is so beautiful and I was impressed with my dad’s taste. He has decided that he wants us to go to the lighthouse and, depending which way the wind is blowing, to just let his ashes drift out to the ocean on the breeze. He also wants us to sing ‘The Old House’, which is an old Irish song. I think it’s a good choice, as it talks of a man coming back to where he is from and seeing everything abandoned. The final two lines have a strong resonance for me.

  Why stand I here, like a ghost or a shadow?

  It is time I was movin’; it is time I passed on.

  JOURNAL, 18 JANUARY 2011, FLUSHING, QUEENS

  My dad asked the oncologist today if he had jumped the gun by stopping the chemo. He has felt invincible all day and now he feels like he can go on forever. My mother heard him ask the question. It is slightly unnerving to hear that he asked, because he never directly expresses to us that he is doubtful about his decision. But now I know for sure that he is.

  We had a chat as a result and I told him what I thought. I think that he feels better as a result of being off chemo for a while now. The fact that he feels better is a victory. I feel it’s a vindication of the decision because he is going to be able to enjoy some of the time he has left, rather than feeling sick all the time.

  He seems happy with the decision, but I guess it’s hard for anyone to accept that they are just allowing themselves to die. He actually said he feels guilty about just ‘giving up’. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but I got the impression he felt like he should be putting up a better fight for us. He also said he felt guilty that he was going to be a burden on us. In a way, it was a lovely thing that he would be worried about that. I guess he felt that by giving in it was in some way a lazy admission that he was now completely reliant on the help of his family and others.

  It is tough to sort of argue in favour of death. You are not really doing that, but sometimes you hear the words coming out of your mouth and you fear that people might think you are rooting for your dad to die. I know I am arguing in favour of my father having less suffering and more quality of life, but when he seems to want to fight a little bit more, it can make you doubt yourself.

  The most important thing though is being able to make sure my dad knows that he is not a burden at all. I just want to let him know that we love looking after him. It’s even better to hear my mother say it. It was particularly nice today because she was so loving when she said it. It was not so much my mother saying, ‘I will make sure everything gets done.’ It was more like her saying, ‘I will be with you, Mike, until the end.’ I sometimes forget that underneath it all my mother loves my father very deeply.

  Here they are, over forty years later, still together nearly every minute of the day. Here we all are, coming back together in the house we were raised in. That togetherness and that love were not always so evident. I can be so critical of what has been before, and I would not take back that criticism, but the challenges we faced as a family and the honesty with which we faced them have brought us to this point where we fight on together. It is just those tiny glimpses of love from my mother that I find so inspiring.

  She must have called him Mike at that time. My mother mostly calls him Dad. Of course he is not her dad, he is our dad. When she calls him that I always think that she only sees him as the father of her children, as if she only sees him through the eyes of the family and not through the eyes of his lover.

  Before we were born, she must have called him Mike. She must have because I know the energy was different then. My father said today, ‘Your mother is very beautiful, isn’t she?’ What stood out was that she did not make a joke. It would have been like her to say, ‘How many painkillers did you take today?’ But she didn’t, she didn’t tap out.

  I know that the moment stayed with them because it immediately inspired a nostalgic chat between my father and my mother about their life together before we were born. It was such a happy chat and I could see how happy they were together then. And I could see how happy my mother was to have been complimented in such a genuine
way by my dad. I could see she felt beautiful when he said it. She felt loved. They loved each other. They love each other. You only get the odd glimpse of your parents’ love for each other, but what a beautiful thing to see.

  JOURNAL, SATURDAY, 22 JANUARY 2011, 8.15 P.M. BACKSTAGE IN SLIGO DURING THE IRISH TOUR OF MY DAD WAS NEARLY JAMES BOND. AIDAN IS ON STAGE

  The changes are coming faster than I expected. So much so that I am sitting backstage at a gig in Sligo just using this writing to make myself feel better about the awful news I heard today. I rang my mother, delighted with myself because I had spoken to my friend Mary, who is an oncologist and who has been advising us all along. She gave me a load of great advice about the best way to use hospice care and about asking the right questions about palliation.

  It turns out they were answers to yesterday’s questions because last night was the first night my dad was in real pain. He had unbearable pain in his thigh, which he had not experienced before last night. It could not have been any more real. Real pain showed real progression of the disease.

  My mother was in a panic on the phone. No amount of painkillers alleviated the pain. She called the emergency number and they came with liquid morphine. According to my mother, he got no real relief from it. She sounded so scared and worried. I hate repeating myself, but when you are far away it is such a powerless feeling.

  He screamed all night. My mother told me he asked if there was a way he could just have the plug pulled. Unfortunately he is not on life support, so that won’t be happening. It’s a terrible thing, cancer, and the way it takes you out.