Now, the thing about people dying is that you have to deal with other people’s issues. I know this is true of many other circumstances, but in death, there really is no escape – you have to do the hugging; you have to do the crying; you have to have intimacy thrust upon you by all sorts of people you don’t choose.
There are two events leading up to my father’s death that come to mind, and seem to be a prelude the onslaught of sitting shiva (albeit a non-conformist, atheist shiva).
The first takes place a few weeks before the main event. I’m at home, about to have one of the many administrative house meetings of the day with Mr Beaten. It’s scheduled for 12:15, and whilst I’m preparing the agenda, I can hear the tinklings of the obsessive neurotic – the sound of my domestic life. I’m enjoying the mundanity of this moment in what has been a gruelling week in a gruelling year of much crying, anxiety, and caring. Hearing a knock at the door, I find Mr Morris-and-co my unexpected guest. Why can’t London be like New York, where dropping in is just not the done thing? I am forced to invite Mr M&C in for a coffee, in spite of the impending meeting. This is a man of such emotional incontinence I find his presence utterly repulsive. A family friend, he’s the kind of man whose dewy-eyed outpourings I’ve had to stomach on too many occasions, and am in the awkward position of not having ever returned his calls when I should have done, and am consequently always on the back foot. Bastard. The pretext of the visit is that he’s dropped off one of his daughter’s friends at the local 6th form. I find myself glad I am no longer 16 and subject to the inappropriate gaze of middle aged men. The meeting will have to wait. I can fast see my one o clock appointment to cut Mr B’s hair being cancelled as I warm the milk for an elaborate drink as directed by our cuckoo in the nest. All pretty annoying so far, but then Mr M&C starts to ask about my father – ‘how is he’. As brightly as possible I tell him the ins and outs of hospital admissions, bed allocations, and pain management. I’m thinking that now is not the time to be sad, as I’ve done a lot of crying already that week. Now is not the time, and I’ve got things to do. But then I see my guest begin to well up. The hands go to his face as he strains to really go for it. I steel myself. There is no way I’m getting drawn into this. After telling me how much he loves my father, his parting shot, is, ‘I just think…if it were me, I’d want to die. I couldn’t let my family go through all this suffering.’ I can’t remember what my response was to this. I only know what I wish I’d said – ‘Fuck off. No one asked you.’ And what I really should have said of the whole episode was ‘I’m so sorry that my father’s dying, how can I make it better for you?’
The second episode takes place during the Lancaster days – perhaps in the run up to Christmas. This is more of a series of events, involving crazy Polish landlady and her desperation to discuss grief with me. I find this distasteful as daddy’s really not dead yet, and surely the grief comes afterwards and not before? As star signs are mentioned I begin to stiffen. When I realise that what she really wants to do is witness my emotion as a way to heal her own trauma, I retreat. Though this is difficult with someone who thinks they can continue a conversation through a closed door.
There was just this terrible lead up to my dad’s ultimate decline. When the talks about getting dad out of hospital came up, our options were very limited. We had the choice between having him at home without enough help or support, or waiting for a hospice bed. At one point it looked like he’d be coming home. I remember being in the family home and speaking to him on his mobile whilst my mother gathered herself to go and fetch him, Thelma and Louise style, from the hellhole ward. I said, ‘So what do you think? Do you want to come home? If you do, we’re ready to get you.’
Long pause: ‘Yep…let’s do it.’
‘Is there anything that’s really worrying you?’
Long pause: ‘…pooing’
‘Well, I’ll talk to mum about it, and we’ll make sure we can find a strategy to make that OK. I promise. Is there anything else that’s worrying you?’
‘I suppose it’s too late for god.’
‘No it’s not. If you want to do some last minute just in case business, I won’t think any less of you.’
[laughs] ‘That’s very sporting of you.’
‘I wouldn’t’
‘Well I would’
There was a lot of loving my dad, but I loved him particularly then. I had and still have such respect for his resolve. Whether or not it’s an anti religious sentiment is not relevant to me. It’s the context of that thought with that man at that time. What I care about is the strength of his belief, of his mind, of his devotion to science, and the committed and serious way in which he decided not to be religious.
As it happens, he never did come home. A fall in the hospital coincided with a bed being made available at the hospice, which was beyond all my expectations (an a really good way).
However, en route to this resolution, the droves of ‘good works’ people kept coming, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught at a weak moment. It’s never with someone you’d like to be with. And before you know it, you’re crying, and having to hug Roger! Awful.
