Hello. It’s been a while. Have you noticed? I’m sure ark building, and trench foot tending has taken priority.
My dad died – sorry to bolt that on. (I stole that line from Nick Laird, shall I just apologise at the end of every sentence?)
Notifying his death feels relevant. To explain my tardy commitment to publishing, if nothing else.
He died back in May. A soul slithered out the 5th floor window of Derriford Hospital after I’d wrenched it open on a sun-baked spring morning. A nurse shuffled in just after it happened.
I’m sorry. She said. – His soul now adrift an air conditioning unit. – But we need to close the window. There’s a bee’s nest out there. Bees. Look. We think they’re looking for a hive.
I did notice. I said. But we need to let his soul go. It cannot stay in Plymouth.
She agreed.
So, we stood, shifting on apologetic hips, for enough seconds that would let us believe his soul had ventured somewhere (anywhere) better. (But not soon enough to worry it might have only made it as far as the sixth-floor canteen). Meanwhile a bee or three attempted to sneak in.
And now here I am. Almost two months on. Gamely ‘getting on’ with life, while simultaneously filing away flashbacks of his pale frame hunched from cancer and pneumonia. (There is 20 kilograms of fluid pressing on his now 40-kilogram chest).
It’s ironic that it’s taken me this long to write. (Is it ironic? That Alanis song has me doubting my understanding of the word). Let me explain. You can decide.
I felt remarkably creative sitting by his bedside. Whole chapters could easily have spilled from me. Now, not so much.
Without the interruption of work, children, mealtimes, my thoughts moved like silk. Ideas, words, whole concepts built themselves like houses. The rhythmic huffing of the ventilator and its LED monitor became my new philosophy and religion. Dad. Life. Dying. The truth. Glassy. Clear.
A life streamlined.
Brown tea. Nurse. Read book. Stroke hand. Panic. Ad Infinitum.
Those bloody nurses though. We clapped for them. I’m unsure how I feel now though. Yes, do laugh, the staunch Labour activist (champagne socialist) questioning the capability of the anointed. I think they should be paid far more. The NHS groaning is far from their fault. But oh. What a bloody mess.
Rachel. She was nice. Calm, warm voice, tuned in. Forgot to put his breathing tube back in though. Twice.
Maggie. I could tell dad thought she was a total idiot. Talking loudly about her weekend while drawing phlegm from his lungs. Calling him babe. I rolled my eyes. I think he saw.
Stacy. What the fuck was going on with Stacy? Nice enough. But energy like Teflon. I wanted to punch her. But it would have slipped right off. Also. Terrible shoes.
Dr McArdle. I liked his voice. Three-piece suit. Dad shook his hand hours before he died. I only noticed Dr McArdle’s cod eye in the minutes before dad kicked it. Thank God I didn’t have to worry for that eye drifting off during fifteen-hour surgery. I have his mobile number on my phone still. That time he called me from bed.
And then of course, suddenly, like water breaking dam. The week long preamble was over. Done.
The main event. It’s time. Say your goodbyes. (Is there anyone you want to call? Are you sure? Someone to sit with you? Ok. Well, if you change your mind).
Take a bow.
Gone. Dead. (Please do not say passed away).
What time was it? The nurse asks me when I tell her he’s gone. I consider making it up. A final act of rebellion. He’d like that.
It’s hard to know – (I tell the truth).
The body moves, even once it’s Done. A jiggle here, a chest raise there, did I see those fingers shift? Good job I Googled that.
The nurse. The student nurse, (sorry, we’re too short staffed for Rachel to come in), passes me a folder. We’re sorry for your bereavement it says. Bad font.
What do I do now, I ask.
His stuff’s arranged in carrier bags and one neat overnight bag. As he’d bought it in, one foot in front of the other. Twenty-seven days ago.
Two pairs of glasses. The pair I’d moved down his face only yesterday so he could write a note. Underwear. Jumper. Walking boots. Paper. Biros. Toothbrush. Newspapers unread. A vape.
I kiss him again. I’m sorry, I say. For what I’m not sure.
I think I might be sick. Possibly I’m hungry, I don’t recall the last meal I ate.
I walk through the hospital. Heavy plastic bags cutting rings into my arms. People stare at me. Or do they? Maybe I’m imagining it. Is this real? Is this happening? I pincer my thigh.
I feel invincible. I feel lost. I feel high. I feel empty. I feel like I need to run away. I feel like this is a home I don’t want to leave.
I consider buying a sandwich.
The nurse. (The student nurse), told me she’d sort my parking fee. But she hasn’t. My window is rolled down. My face hurts. Tears drying sharply in morning sun.
People behind me beep as the carpark attendant saunters to my window. Red face, contorting – mine, not his. Are you having treatment, he asks.
No.
My dad just died. Just now. Half an hour ago. Maybe, give or take.
If you’re not having treatment you have to pay. Or you can walk back up to reception and ask them to sort it. I fish amongst my dead dad’s things. Where’s my fucking card. Where is my handbag.
Ok, I say, voice cracking like a continent. I push my debit card toward him. It hits the machine and beeps.
The barrier lifts. The hire car judders. I don’t know where the bite on this bastard clutch is. Why don’t I know how to do this.
Sunshine, daisies, sore indents in my arm. First gear.
My phone flickers. I look down.
NatWest: £4.60, Derriford Hopsital.
I can claim that back, I think.
The price of a soul. Sold to a hive of wayward bees.