by Jemma Forte
‘Well,’ says his doctor, ‘Your father hasn’t been feeling too good these last couple of days and has suggested it might be time for us to hand his care over to the palliative team, and we concur with that decision. That department will be better equipped to handle things from here on in.’
‘Right,’ I say, swallowing hard, determined not to cry. I can’t help it, a reflex action I look to Matthew, only to find that he’s watching me with such concern it throws me altogether. The whole situation is very overwhelming and of course I’m totally aware that I can’t get too visibly upset for Dad’s sake. There’s a huge lump in my throat though because I’m just not ready to lose him yet. How can it be that although I knew this day was coming, have done from the get go, I feel so horrified and shocked by it?
I perch tentatively on the edge of the bed and take Dad’s hand in mine. It feels papery and dry.
‘And how do you feel about all of this, Dad?’
‘Yeah, I think it’s got to that point,’ he says. ‘And besides, it’ll have one or two other benefits I reckon.’
As he says this, he looks firstly at Matthew and then at me. I can hardly believe it. Matthew looks totally alarmed in case Mr Clarkson cottons on to what he’s referring to.
‘May I have a minute alone with my dad?’ I ask everyone.
‘Of course, we can wait in the corridor a second,’ he says to Matthew, and the two of them shuffle back through the gap in the curtain.
‘Dad,’ I say gently, once we’re on our own. ‘If you’re agreeing to this for any other reason than because it’s the right thing to do for your health, you won’t need palliative because I’ll kill you myself.’
To his credit Dad laughs but this soon turns into a cough and then I see him reaching for his syringe driver. He presses down on it in order to administer some pain relief.
‘I want to be looked after by them now,’ he says simply, and I can tell he means it. ‘I need the drugs they have, and it’s time. It’s not a question of giving up or rolling over, or saying you’re ready to die, but the palliative team will make what time I have got left far more comfortable.’
‘OK,’ I say, satisfied that his reasoning is all totally sensible but completely petrified about what the near future holds.
‘Though it does mean Matthew ain’t working with me any more,’ he’s unable to resist adding, even giving me a small wink as he does so. ‘So, if you did want to go on a date with him again, there wouldn’t be anything unethical about it whatsoever.’
I roll my eyes and smile and yet my heart is so heavy it’s an effort to do so. ‘It’s complicated,’ I say lightly.
If only he knew how unimportant everything except him felt right now he’d understand that, as much as I do still have so many feelings for Matthew, I am simply not in the right place to explore them.
‘By the way,’ I say softly, knowing I do at least have one piece of news that will make him happy. ‘I’ve got a date for my audition for the College.’
Dad’s eyes instantly perk up a bit and he nods at me to tell him.
‘Fourteenth of December.’
‘Fourteenth of December,’ he repeats ‘And how long after that would you find out then?’
‘Not long apparently,’ I say, feeling sick at the thought. ‘Maybe only a few days?’
‘Right,’ says Dad grimly and I know him well enough by now to know that he has decided in that moment that he’s not going anywhere, or at least not until he’s discovered my fate, one way or the other.
Everybody in the family is extremely affected by Ray’s decline. Even Martin, who has been unbelievably sweet and supportive and keeps asking if there’s anything he can do, which of course there isn’t. No one can. Still, his kindness is gratefully accepted and once again I am reminded of my stepdad’s good heart. On a more unexpected note, one night, while I’m huddled up on my bed, staring into space, thinking how I should be practising the violin but unable to get myself into gear, there’s a tap at my door.
I’m very surprised to discover it’s Pete.
‘You all right?’ I ask, wondering what emergency can have necessitated such a proactive gesture as actually knocking on my door.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry to hear your dad’s not doing great.’
‘Thanks Pete,’ I say sincerely.
Coming from him this is practically a speech, but amazingly it seems there’s more.
‘Ray’s a top bloke.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again, vaguely surprised he’s noticed. ‘He is.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Pete adds, and I have to say at this point I’m a little bemused.
‘Really?’ I say doubtfully, wondering how the hell he’s managed to come to that conclusion.
‘Yeah,’ he nods seriously. ‘You have a really great bond with Ray. Must be nice.’
My heart contracts with unexpected sympathy for my complicated brother.
‘Oh Pete. Mum and Martin adore you.’
‘Yeah,’ he says monosyllabically but having opened up more than he has in a lifetime, that appears to be all I’m getting out of him on the subject. Having clammed up again he slopes off back towards his bedroom.
As he closes the door I feel really sad for him, for of course I know exactly what he’s getting at. I guess he feels a lot like I did for many, many years. Removed somehow from the bosom of the family, and detached, due to not really connecting. The only difference is that there’s no chance of another parent turning up on his doorstep one day. No possibility that one of the people responsible for creating him will suddenly turn out to love Elvis, or to hate small talk and socialising with other human beings in general, which would of course provide him with a sense of belonging and of worth. It would make him make sense. Still, as I’ve been reminded recently, our family is comprised of good people, which is more than can be said of some.
Of course Dad himself does have another child, and Hayley is hugely upset by his recent turn for the worse. When she finds out the end may be imminent she does a lot of noisy crying and a lot of shouting, which incorporates many ‘It’s not fairs’. She’s bloody angry and I think it would be fair to say that we’re all handling the news in our own way. However, thankfully I’ve noticed that Jason is amazing at reining Hayley in. Not in a horrible, controlling way like Gary used to, but with love and tenderness and a healthy dose of common sense. I hate seeing my sister so upset and only yesterday we had a good, loud cry together, which turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic.
The last person to amaze me is Mum. On one particularly hideous day in November that I shall never forget, she not only amazes me but dumbfounds and most of all impresses me beyond belief.
Since Dad’s been handed over to palliative, I’ve started accompanying him to many of his hospital visits. Roberto has been completely understanding about what’s going on and has said I can have as many days off as I need. This is a godsend, because when I’m at work all I can think is that I should be with Dad. I don’t want to regret not making the most of the time I have left with him so, at the moment, I don’t want to work much or do any children’s parties. Besides, Dad’s really weak now so needs help getting out of the car and stuff anyway. As a result of being present at so many of his check-ups, I know exactly how badly he’s doing. I have become au fait with all sorts of medical terminology and can now tell you what your blood count should be, how to take blood pressure, and the names of a variety of drugs and what they do. I don’t glean an ounce of pleasure from any of this.
On one particular visit, the doctor says that it might be time to visit the hospice.
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,’ she says. ‘It really is a lovely place. Spotlessly clean, well run and full of light.’
Having researched into hospices myself I am completely dumbstruck by her suggestion, given that the average stay at a hospice is around a week to ten days. Surely my dad has longer than this? He’s not even bedridden yet.
‘He’s not ready f
or a hospice yet,’ I state firmly.
‘No,’ agrees the doctor to my immense relief. ‘But he might be in a few weeks,’ she continues gently. ‘So I thought you might like to have a look at it, so you know what to expect and so you can see what a nice environment it is.’
At this point Dad looks pale, worn out and utterly terrified.
After we’ve left the hospital, instead of taking him home, I drive him back to ours as I can sense he doesn’t want to be alone. As I switch the engine off I notice how dark it is suddenly. Winter is most definitely here. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get in the warm.’
To my horror however, instead of getting out, Dad does something he hasn’t ever done before. He breaks down and cries. Huge, racking, desperate sobs.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, hugging him tight, determined not to let on how shocking and how heartbreaking it is to see my big bear of a father crying so desperately. ‘It’s OK, let it out. It’s good to have a cry. You need to.’
And we sit like this for a while, me hugging him tight, wishing I could wave a magic wand and make everything all right. Wishing I could tell him it would all be fine.
‘Forgive me,’ he says minutes later, once he’s had a good howl. ‘I’m so sorry Marianne. I didn’t want you to see me like this, it’s not fair.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say, patting his arm. At this precise moment we have switched roles. He needs me to be the adult. He needs looking after and the comfort of someone telling him it will be OK. ‘Now, come on’ I say, getting out my side and going round to help him out. ‘Let’s get in and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
Once I’ve got Dad settled in the comfy chair in the lounge, I walk round the corner into the kitchen. The partition wall separates us of course but, aware that he can easily still hear me, I make sure that as my own sadness overwhelms me I don’t make a sound.
Seconds later, I hear Mum’s voice saying, ‘Hello Ray lovey, you all right?’
I open the hatch. Mum’s face is full of concern as she takes in Dad’s frail appearance. She’s carrying lots of shopping bags so she comes round to where I am in the kitchen and dumps them all on the breakfast bar.
‘Hello love,’ she says, spotting me. ‘Is that kettle boiled, I’m desperate for a cuppa. I’ve done loads of Crimble shopping today. They had some lovely sets at Boots. You know, toiletries and that. Did you know Peter Andre’s got a new aftershave out? Tell you what, I’d love to sniff it on him,’ she laughs dirtily.
‘It’s only November,’ I say, wiping away the evidence that I’ve been crying with a tea towel.
‘Exactly, only weeks away,’ she says. ‘Besides, I start with the old Crimble shopping in June, I do. That way the payments are spread out over the year and Martin’s none the wiser. Gotta bleed ‘em dry while you can, eh? Hey, what is it lovey?’
I look up with a start and shake my head at her, warning her to be quiet. I don’t want Dad to know I’m upset.
Mum nods that she gets what I’m saying and looking solemn takes off her coat. She goes back to see Dad again.
‘Hello Raymondo,’ I hear her say gently. ‘Are you really all right, lovey? Can I get you a little biccy or anything? Something sweet might do you the world of good.’ Then, ‘Oh lovey, don’t be sad, what is it? What’s happened?’
Abandoning the tea-making I follow after her and find Mum squatting down besides Dad, rubbing his back, looking really concerned for him.
‘What is it?’ she asks me. ‘Will one of you silly buggers please tell me?’
Right.
I take a deep breath. ‘Er well, today at the hospital they suggested we go and visit the hospice, and I think it’s just freaked us out a bit.’
‘Hospice?’ she repeats, the colour draining from her cheeks. ‘Bit early for that isn’t it?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I agree vehemently ‘That’s what I said, and it is. But they just thought we might want to go and have a look.’
‘And what do you think of that?’ whispers Mum to Dad, who looks so defeated today and so desperately sad. Still, ever mindful of everyone else’s feelings, I can see him battling to pull himself together and raises his head to meet her gaze.
‘It’s fine, and I’m sorry,’ he manages, still clearly quite overwhelmed by everything. It dawns on me then how brave he’s always been, managing to hide his feelings from me and everyone else. He’s been so stoic and unbelievably unselfish throughout his illness and yet of course, as a result of that, if the floodgates are opened, as they have been today, everything was always going to come pouring out.
Mum waits patiently for him to gather himself.
‘It’s fine,’ he repeats finally, clearing his throat and sniffing hard. ‘I’m just … I’m just a little bit scared of dying alone, but I guess that’s the whole point of these places isn’t it? And I won’t be on my own because the staff will be around all the time.’
‘And I will be,’ I interject adamantly. ‘I won’t be going anywhere Dad. I’ll be there I promise, making sure you’re comfortable and OK and I want you to know that. I won’t leave your side.’
Dad nods bravely. ‘You’re a good girl Marianne, but there’s no way I want you to be there the whole time. That would be far too heavy going for you. Nah, don’t you worry, I’m being a right old silly. It’ll be fine.’
I can see Mum staring at him hard, like she’s weighing up what to say next.
‘Move in here.’
I turn to her, flabbergasted, and my heart starts pounding so hard it nearly hammers through my chest.
‘What?’ says Dad who clearly thinks he hasn’t heard right.
‘Move in here,’ she repeats, louder and with more conviction this time. ‘There’s plenty of space in the front room for a bed, so you wouldn’t have to worry about stairs or nothing, and you could use the downstairs loo for wish washing and all that, couldn’t you?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Dad. ‘You’re very sweet Alli, but nah. I couldn’t let you.’
‘No,’ says Mum, pulling herself up to standing, her knees cracking noisily as she does so. ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It’s the perfect solution. You’ll be here with us, looked after and I’m sure we can get the nurses and that to come here for bits and bobs we can’t manage.’
‘Alison, I’m gonna need proper medical care babe. And … well, it won’t be pretty, if you know what I mean.’
‘Well obviously we’ll need to look into it all properly,’ Mum insists, undeterred. ‘You know, we’ll talk to the hospital and that but there must be a way to make it work. Marianne would be happy too, wouldn’t you lovey? And … so would I. You should be here … you’re family. I want to do this.’
There’s a silence while Dad and I absorb what she’s said during which I will him to agree to what she’s offering. I can see him weighing it all up but am surprised by what he says next.
‘I love you, Alison,’ he says sincerely, not in a dramatic way, but quietly and meaningfully and looking so devastated it’s all I can do not to wail out loud.
‘And I care about you very much too,’ Mum says back simply, not revealing even a hint of what must be the maelstrom of emotions that are charging through her right now.
‘But I can’t take you up on your kind offer,’ he insists. ‘Apart from anything else, what would Martin make of your ex taking up half his ground floor and dying in his living room eh?’
‘Martin will understand,’ says Mum firmly and I know then that it will happen, for when my mother makes up her mind, that’s it, and I can’t see Martin changing the habit of a lifetime by disagreeing with her suddenly. Besides, he may be a lot of things but as well we all know he’s a generous soul and how could he refuse? We are family. All of us. We’re one big, weird, dysfunctional family, not all related by blood. But isn’t that most families these days? And doesn’t the very word family mean exactly the sort of love and compassion my mum is showing now?
; ‘Oh my god Mum, thank you so much,’ I tell her, grabbing her for a heartfelt hug.
‘Ooh you daft apeth,’ she says, but hugs me back. ‘Right, let’s not bother waiting around. I’ll phone Mar right now. He’s in the pub, so bit of luck I’ll get him in a good mood,’ she jokes, giving Dad a little nudge. ‘And then we can work out what needs to be done.’
I look at Dad. He’s welling up again, but this time he’s also smiling. He looks utterly, utterly relieved and I can tell that Mum’s plan has boosted him beyond belief. You see, weirdly – and I have given this a lot of thought – I don’t think he’s scared of being dead, not like I know I certainly would be, but what he’s more scared of is dying, of the actual process and how that will be. Now he knows it will be happening here, with us, I think he feels like whatever happens he’ll be able to face it. I have never loved my mother more than I do right now.
‘OK?’ I ask Dad as Mum flaps out of the room, a woman on a mission.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Though are you sure it’s going to be OK, me taking up so much room and everything?’
‘You know as well as I do, that you have precisely no say in the matter whatsoever.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ray moving in is the best thing that could have happened. It provides us all with a sense of purpose at a time when ordinarily we’d be feeling very lost.
Of course deep down I’m sure Martin must have fairly mixed feelings about his wife’s ex moving in, but if he does he doesn’t show it. Instead, true to form, he keeps quiet and treats transforming the front room into a bedroom as one big DIY project to get his teeth into. He could surely be the poster boy for the people who coined the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ saying. When I told him that the hospice would be lending us a proper hospital bed he looked vaguely disappointed. I think he’d been hoping for a bonus trip to Dreams or IKEA. Still, he has been out to purchase a bedside table, which to his enormous delight arrived flat packed, so he’s had that to do, and he’s also measuring up for a bit of shelving. He’s doing it right now in fact, for tomorrow is the big day when Dad moves in. Strictly speaking he’s not quite at the stage where he needs to move in yet, he could have waited a while longer, but what would be the point? He’ll be far happier and less lonely living here with us. Plus, at the rate his health is deteriorating it’s probably safer for him to be surrounded by people.