Five days that changed my world.

Day one.

Little did I know as we left the house that day, that you wouldn't be coming home. I remember the feel of your frail hand, with signs of years of hard graft, clasped in mine, scared yet hopeful. A role reversal, of child comforting parent. Exactly as it should be. Then came the waiting and waiting and waiting. The questions and answers and questions and answers that dragged on for hours. You knew something, but can't put my finger on it. You were quiet, even melancholy. I felt you were communicating with a higher being, I hope you got the answer you wanted. I hope they were waiting for you. 

 

All I wanted was their time, devoted to you, to give you answers, to take away the pain. And they did. They found you a bed and for some unknown reason I wasn't afraid anymore. It was getting sorted. And after tucking you in for the night, we drove home, being serenaded by Elvis on the radio and hope was alive.

 

Sleep...it never really came that night, but you were in the best place, that's what they always say. The unknown has a certain fear attached. Our world already turned upside down, with you not being home. A strange eerie silence descends the house, the family home of 44 years. A place where we all go back to, in times of celebration and sadness. Now it feels like we're being disloyal even being there.

 

Day two.

So the waiting game continues. Waiting to be told when we can see you, when we can give you a hug, a kiss, some reassurance. But that was hard to do. We had no answers. They could give no answers. And maybe you could see it in our faces. The fear...powerless...out of control...and still we have to wait. Tests, tests and more tests. But no answers.

 

And then we have something, but nothing at the same time. A growth, attached to your colon. A growth. No name. No definition. More questions than answers. And suddenly we're transported to a place of hell. Because not only do you have this growth to deal with, you have other issues which is preventing them treating you the way they want. I can't remember much from that evening, only that Elvis was on the radio again. Was it a sign, or just something to comfort us? 

 

Day three.

'We're doing everything we can to sort his blood so we can operate' they said. Pint after pint of blood going through your veins. And my thoughts went to the strangers who had donated their blood as I've done many times. This is the reason, in times of emergency. I say a quiet prayer of thanks because I'm hopeful this will work. 

 

So it's another long day...little things I remember. You saying 'why are you not in work?' actually wondering what all the fuss is about. But it was about you...because we were a family unit, so tight. We never strayed far from home. And that was because of you and mum. You raised us to respect our elders, and we loved being around people like you, like we'd aspire to be when we grew up. And that's just it! When did we grow up? How did that happen? When did life prepare us for this?

 

And still we sit with you, chat a bit, but really there's not much to say. You are so tired from all the prodding and round-the-clock checks, that you drift in and out of sleep. The inevitable is about to happen. My dad, who rarely went to the doctors, who never took a headache tablet was going to have major surgery. And what do you think of? The light grey stubble growing on your chin...the very same chin that you rub on lochy's cheek every night as we go home. The game which never fails to amuse him...'come on mummy, grandads chin is so smooth' knowing full well it'd scratch as I touched it. And vice-versa. It made me smile too...this fatherly bond between grandad and grandson. A connection. An understanding. 

 

So out comes the electric razor...which you never really liked. I rub it over your face which I realise is now gaunt and tired looking. This role reversal happens again, and I'm grateful to have that opportunity to get close to you. No words needed.

 

And then the specialist calls us around the bed. And draws the curtain. How final that now seems. A hushed conversation and an agreement from a frail 71 year old man, to allow them to operate, even after being told it would be 50-50. Such a brave and courageous man. And a stern look to us all saying, be strong, no tears. We all lean in for a kiss and a whisper. We love you. The grandchildren love you. Be strong and see you the other side.

 

A blur. A mind racing and tears flowing. Phone calls that will stay with me forever. Don't know if we're coming or going. What to do now? Where to go now? 'A long operation' they said. 'Go home and rest' they said. 'Get some dinner' they said. As if!

 

Day four.

Yes...day four because the operation lasts for hours and hours. All staring at four walls at home. Can't talk. Don't know what to say. Candles lit. Prayers said. More phone calls throughout the night. And we get to the early hours of the fourth day and we can wait around no more. We have to be near him...we want him to know we're not far away. So we wait in a cold uncomfortable room waiting for news that he's come through the op. 

 

And that moment when we're called in, two by two, to see that you've made it through. You've  only gone and done it! Relief and trepidation as we walk into intensive care. The fear of the unknown is here again. But you made it, didn't you?

 

Years of watching hospital dramas on TV doesn't prepare you. Not when it's real life and it's your loved one lying there. Monitors bleeping and flashing lights all around, yet my gaze is transfixed on your face. Eyes closed. Resting. Letting the machines do all the hard work. 'His body needs to rest' they said. 'It was a traumatic operation'. And the waiting game starts again.

 

Day five.

What's right? What's wrong? I'll never know. But some things planned are unavoidable. The birthday trip to the zoo went ahead. Mobile technology means you're never really that far away. And it was with that technology I heard the fateful words 'the doctors said you have to get here now'. 

 

I remember driving, and there must've been someone watching over me because how I managed it, I'll never know. Eyes blinded by tears. Heart pounding so hard my head hurt. And still I couldn't comprehend this scene I was playing a part in. 

 

We all got there. Your closest loved ones. We got to be beside you holding your hand when the Angels came. They were ever so quiet. The room wasn't though. The hurt and pain could be heard in everyone's tears.

 

And to this day, nearly 8 months on, that pain hasn't eased. The tears still blind me. And the pain that grips my chest so tight is scary. I want to think of the happy memories. I want to think that you died exactly how you would've wanted...quickly. But for now, these thoughts evade me. I have too many tears that still need to be shed. I'm not ready to learn to live without you. I miss you for mum. I miss you for your grandchildren. I miss you for my sister. I miss you for all your other relatives. I miss you for me. I miss you.