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Updated 6th May 2008:

by Richard W. Fairbairn

My father passed away and the article below is the account of the last time I spent with him. Its graphic in sections and therefore not advisable to read if you’re under 18 years of age or will find this kind of detail disturbing.

Goodbye Dad...
I’d taken my wife and son to see my father in hospital on Friday 11th April 2008. It was a difficult decision, as our son is only four years old. But dad was doing so much better and was out of the High Dependency Unit. The new ward was busier, but there were a lot fewer scary things dotted around.

MRSA was a bit worry, as Ward 206 was still not 100% clean. Even as we visited I could sense uneasiness in the male nurse I spoke to. It might have been my manner, though, as I tend to unwittingly interrogate people to get answers when the facts before me don’t add up. I couldn’t get why dad was still in hospital and not back home. The MRSA had been cleared up, he was on his feet and walking again. The dialysis was becoming routine.

But there was the problem with blood pressure not being quite right, and more blood tests had been ordered because dad was showing signs of another MRSA infection. Still, he looked so well... I was sure it was only a matter of time before he’d be coming home and I’d be cooking him the “eggy bread” I’d kept talking about.

The visit went extremely well. My wife (we’d spoken beforehand) kept a close eye on our son to make sure he didn’t touch anything. When he did we cleaned his hands with the anti bacterial alcohol gel. Peter had his hands cleaned about fifty times during the visit. We laughed and joked with dad. He looked fit and healthy. He wasn’t worried about his dialysis that night. He was looking forward to coming home. He was looking forward to the future.

I was six minutes into “The Office - An American Workplace” and halfway through my first glass of wine when the phone rang. It must have been about 11:30. I don’t remember exactly what time it was. But the voice on the phone was a very sober and serene nurse, telling me some terrible news in a calm and unhurried voice. Dad’s heart had stopped during dialysis... It had started again, but had taken about 20 minutes to stay beating on its own... He wasn’t expected to live for much longer... Could I come in? Someone should come in if they can...

I phoned my mother. She’d already heard the news. She was upset, as you’ll imagine. I told her I was on my way to the hospital.

My wife helped me get ready in a daze. We backtracked in double time to figure out how much wine I’d drunk. Was it really the first glass? I pour myself really large glasses... But I’d only had a sip or two. Next thing I knew I was driving towards Edinburgh Little France. The biggest thought on my mind was the bad weather. I was focussing pretty seriously and reminding myself that I had to drive carefully, despite the urgency, so that I’d be able to safely get there and home again back to my wife and son.

I arrived there pretty quickly. It was about midnight by then. It was a bit of a struggle to find dad, as the voice on the phone had told me to come to Ward 1 and the security guys said the wards began at 101. Eventually we all realized I should be headed to the dialysis out patients. And within about 30 seconds I was there.

Dad was lying motionless by the time I arrived, with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He was unconscious, but breathing very heavily. His body was shivering. The staff told me ( a little too loudly for my liking) that dad wasn’t going to survive this and that his heart had been stopped for too long. After telling me all this they then told me to talk to dad as he could probably hear me. Christ! I was thinking I hope he didn’t hear you...

In about 20 minutes dad and I were on our way back to Ward 206. I knew he was being sent there to be kept comfortable. There was no High Dependency Unit this time. No machines and monitors. The Doctor had spelled it all out for me months before and now it was all playing out right in front of me like I’d always known and never expected that it would happen.

There was a quiet room and some sympathetic faces in Ward 206. I remember the male nurse was Robert, but I don’t remember any of the other staff’s names. Dad was taken into his room. I found myself feeling so terribly sad to see the Club biscuit on his table along with the papers I’d brought and his other belongings. I think, only then as I sat with him, that it all started to become real to me then. I’d been on automatic pilot, a blessing or curse that’s helped me get through many difficult situations in the past. Now I was back in the moment, struggling to think of things to say to my desperately ill father.

I spoke for hours about this and that. I drank three or four cups of tea. The hospital staff made dad comfortable when he made grunting gasping sounds that I figured meant he was in distress. Injections of morphine kept dad calm. He never did regain consciousness although I am sure, from sounds and movements he made, that he knew I was there.

The last few years with my dad had been difficult. I regret that I could not have changed things, but I did try. His grandson - my beautiful four year old son - deserved better grandparents than the grandparents my mother and father were prepared to be. My mother would refer to my wife and son as “my son’s wife and her child”. My father was only vaguely interested in the bright little light that tried to shine upon them. In the last year of my father’s life I laid it on the line, telling them both that they needed to be more a part of my son’s life. I pulled out all the stops and so did my wife. But it was all seemed like a chore. My mother would make scheduled phone calls to ask about Peter, and she’d remind me afterwards that she was “doing what I’d asked”. My father took more of an interest in Peter. Indeed, when he saw his grandson he was always full of love and praise. He just didn’t see Peter enough and I was always concerned about taking my son to see them because my volatile sister would often show up, filling the arena with her foulness. In 4 years I’d managed to shield my son from her antics. It was a tough call, but I made the right decision in the end.

I spoke to dad for hours. His breathing eased and I felt so relieved. When he breathed so harshly and loudly I was sure he must be in distress. I imagined him gasping for breath, but of course he must have been out of it with the drugs and the shock of his heart having stopped. At 3 am dad died.

I saw it coming from a long way off. His breathing slowed, got less vigorous. Eventually he was barely breathing at all. Then his knees bent up and his hands came to his chest. I think he was having a heart attack. I begged for it to be over soon. I held dad with my hand cupped round his head and I told him to go. I told him to go with Peter (my late brother, dads eldest son) and that Bernadette, Peter and I loved him very much.

Then it was over. Dad was still. His chest wasn’t rising or falling anymore. I felt for a pulse and there was none. Then, out the corner of my eye, I saw a face at the door. It was on of the male nurses. I waved to him with an unnecessary franticness that I don’t know what possessed me. The nurse entered the room. I was holding dads hand and I said: “I think he’s gone.”

Robert and the young blonde female nurse appeared. Robert checked dads pulse and looked at me. He confirmed that dad had died. And then I just broke down. I held onto Roberts hand and I sobbed. I was blubbering about dad and about how I was so glad it was over. About how I was so worried he’d go back to HDU and have to go through all this again. Then, I collected myself and told Robert “I love my dad. I didn’t want him to suffer anymore.” Robert understood. They asked if I wanted some time alone with dad and I said yes.

I don’t know how much time passed. 10 minutes, 20 minutes. Maybe more. But I was still in the room with my father. I hadn’t phoned anyone. I was still numb. I was shocked, yet so greatly relieved that dad was free of it all. That his next journey had begun.

And then dad breathed.

I wasn’t sure he did at first because his face was still a death mask and he was otherwise completely motionless. But by this time the blonde nurse had returned and was tidying up. She saw the horrified look in my eye and assured me that it was “just the body settling”. He didn’t breath again. She went on about her business. I stayed with dad, staring at him.

It must have been 10 minutes later that he made the same sound again. And then maybe a minute passed and he breathed yet again. And I felt a feeling I can barely describe. A horrific “please God no” feeling that my poor dad wasn’t on his way yet - that there was more for him to go through. And when he breathed yet again I felt his pulse. It was steady and strong. I left the room and whispered to the nurse at the desk, 10 feet away: “I think he’s still alive.”

Robert returned to the room and checked dads pulse. He confirmed that dad was still alive. The blonde nurse was there. She told me that it “wouldn’t be long now”.

Dad breathed shallow and quiet for about three more hours, and his pulse stayed strong. By six am he was moving and grunting again. He had to have more morphine. I managed to arrange a taxi for my sister and she arrived. By the time she did my dad was looking almost exactly as he’d done that time I’d seen him in the HDU months before. I think I knew that he was going to die, but I thought we were in for a long haul. I explained this to my sister when I saw her. I had to come home to rest and she had to watch dad, had to watch him carefully so she could call the nurses if he was in distress. We connected for the first time in over 2 years. Then, I left.

I think dad must have died when I was driving home. I’d been home 20 minutes when the phone rang. It was my mother telling me that my sister had gone for a coffee. When she’d come back, dad was gone. I felt so bad that I’d left him. I phoned my sister. She was overcome with grief “I went out for a smoke and when I came back he was dead” she cried. I told her I was sorry.

My wife held me as I cried too. My son entered the room and we told him that granddad had gone to Heaven. We tried to explain, but I don’t think he really understood.

I didn’t realize how much I’d miss my dad until he wasn’t there to tell all the stupid things to. That I saw a queen bee, or some deer in the woods. About how our new (second hand) car is rubbish, but gets us from A to B. About how Peter did at pre school. About how he enjoyed seeing his granddad and can’t wait to cook that eggy bread when granddad comes home.

When I was about 12 years old my oldest and beloved brother Peter was killed in a motorcycle accident. I never loved or missed anyone or anything so badly as I did he. My own son, Peter also, was born on the same day as my late brother. I took that as a good sign. I like to think that granddad and Peter’s uncle are together now, catching up on the years they’ve missed.

If you were affected by this story please don’t hesitate to contact me.

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