Bedside vigil

1.08am.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  A shout at 1am saying Dad’s breathing has changed sees me running down the landing of my parents house.  By the time I get there a nano second later, his breathing is back to his new normal. I perch on the stool telling mum to get more sleep, I’ll carry on the watch so she can rest.   Glad now I bought new pyjamas.

Dad was given a terminal diagnosis with six to eight weeks to live nine days ago.  Nine days ago.  He’s slipping away already.  His stage four lung cancer diagnosis made almost a year ago but acceptance onto a drug’s trial in the new year had seen the tumour shrinking. He had been told to go live his life as the drug was working, it would give him another three to five years. Greenland in 2026 was duly booked.

2.46am.  The ticking of the clock in the hall continues.  Mum is dozing, one ear still alert, like she did when I was a baby. I’m leaning against a chest of drawers, hand on dad’s. Willing none of this to be happening 

Where did that 90 minutes go?  Where will the next 90 hours go?

Sickness in October. Pain. A stay in hospital to get it all under control. Scans. A sit down with a frank but brutal revelation that this was it, it was now in the lining around his brain. Nothing can be done. It’s the beginning of November. The next few months now thrown into disarray. Christmas plans scrapped before we are even really into November let alone December.

3.20am.  I’m watching for the rhythmic rise and fall of the duvet whilst also watching my phone screen glowing in the dark.  Mindlessly scrolling to fight off sleep. Much needed sleep but somebody needs to keep a vigil and mum needs to sleep more.  

Tick tock tick tock.  The clock in the hall carries on.

Family have gathered. Employers notified in order for compassionate leave to be granted so time can be spent chatting one on one. Bruce and I move in to help mum.

3.34am. I start writing lists in my head.  I name it Dadmin and feel I’ve let him down to be thinking of all that needs to be done in the future whilst he’s still here.  Whilst I’m still holding his hand.    We put a fresh tea light in the glass holder with sheep on that normally gets lit on the dining room table at supper time. It’s a favourite so it is now on the chest of drawers beside the bed. From now on we ensure the tea lights never go out.

4.02am.  Is that a hiccup? Is that a snore? A change we need to be worried about? Or is that the last breath? I realise I’ve been holding my breath until i hear another snore. Able to breathe out again I relax slightly.   In the final hours we joke we’re being teased by the holding of breath, it’s just long enough to make us jump, and then as dad breathes out again it’s as though he is letting us know who is still in charge.

I tell dad this is a fight he wont win if he is waiting for us to leave the room. He’s Taurean and stubborn but this is one battle of wills we will not let him have, we vow he will not be alone so if that is what he is waiting for, forget it. It is not happening. Yet all of this is happening.

4.17am.  My hour of unlimited lives on Candy Crush has run out 

4.23am. We give up the pretence of getting any sleep now.  Mum is awake and we’ve agreed that we both need tea.   Kettle is on, teapot is primed.  The dishwasher has been emptied.  The washing machine is now on. Ironing is being done.  

In the kitchen the relentless tick tock of the hallway clock is louder. 

4.30am.  Second and third cups of tea and we’re having an Apple Music bedroom disco with Springsteen and Talking Heads whilst also discussing Botticelli and Karl Jenkins.  Beethoven’s fifth makes an appearance and feels wildly inappropriate but then that makes it all the more perfect.   

4.45am and dad had said earlier in the week that when the times comes he wanted to go out drinking red wine and listening to Beethoven.  We have done Beethoven so I suggest mum brushes dad’s teeth with some Pinot Noir.   Is that a smile when he realises what’s happening? 

5am and it feels like a good time for a shower.  Breathing is steady. Leaving the room for a short while feels safe.  

6.13am. Talking. Mum and I to each other, quietly about the Dadmin list. Louder but gently close to dad’s face we are talking about the people dad has helped, mentored and loved. The legacy he leaves. Recounting stories, some we have only just learned about from his recent discussions with the kids. Some older. People message and call. We let dad know, keeping him up to date. We can’t say how much we love him often enough. Does he hear us? We don’t know but we keep saying it anyway.

7.05am I’ve been to two cash machines and I am now in Sainsbury’s with a list and builders getting meal deals and Costa coffee from the vending machine.  The cashier’s “you’re on a mission, have a beautiful day” has me biting the inside of my cheeks and sitting in the car as I  try and stop the sobbing before driving  back for another day of uncertainty. At the same time there is an alarming certainty and I cant fathom how those two things can run parallel to each other.

7.25am.  I open the door to and hear the clock but mum isn’t calling for me so it’s seem safe to make more tea before heading back upstairs.   

Tick tock tick tock.  As the sun rises on another autumnal day.   The clock’s counting down the hours to the now inevitable.  The inevitable we didn’t know about ten days ago.  But now it’s approaching rapidly.   Faster than we could ever have imagined.  Faster than the medics suggested.  Faster than we can comprehend    Faster than we’ve prepared for.  

Three days later it’s here 

Tick tock tick tock as the clock carries on.   

My dad has gone.  I’ve slept in an arm chair at the end of his bed for three nights, mum slept as close to him as she can get, never far from his side in almost 60 years.  Precious friends have visited, some were still planning to come, not knowing it’s now too late.   

Family are all here.  

The sun is shining, the birds are singing.   

Our family falls apart. 

Stop all the clocks.