20th December 2020

You came home today.

For us, it followed two days of hurry up and wait. You couldn’t be discharged until there was a hospital bed and mattress at your house and oxygen, separate deliveries. S agreed to take deliveries at your empty house, and we carefully flagged that she needed to know when they would be arriving. I rushed around packing for who knows how long, picking up herbs and oils and knowing once I was there I’d be in self-isolation. Actually, can we drop the self? I’m not choosing to isolate. And depending on delivery times, when would you be discharged? Would it be Friday? Would it roll over into Saturday? Time isn’t on our side, people.

Fast forward to phone call from equipment delivery person. “I’m outside the house?”

I wanted to scream: “Why? We said we needed two hours notice.” Instead I negotiated to make sure the damn equipment didn’t disappear back to a depot.

Your discharge date was pushed to Saturday. First thing. You’d be leaving at 9am, they said. As long as the medics approved it after they’d seen you in the morning.

8am I get the call. Which is cutting it fine. I want to be at the house before you. I don’t want you to wait.

I dare to fill up with petrol, weighing up being late for you with not having fuel in a driving emergency. I’m thinking of a million things I should stop and get but I don’t. D and our child are coming on later after a hospital appointment. The rest of the family can’t isolate so, at least for now, it’s you and me, Dad. If I drive sensibly, I’ll make it by 10am.

The house is quiet, clean, and there is a hospital bed in your room. A big tank of oxygen is sitting in the living room. Or living in the sitting room. There’s food in the fridge scrummaged by Saz from the bare-shelved tier 4 supermarket. I put the kettle on.

Fast forward to phone call from S.

“The hospital just rang me. Patient transport is arriving at the hospital at 10:30. I know. I know. It’s ridiculous. Oh, by the way, the oxygen guy insisted on leaving one tank in the sitting room, I didn’t think Dad would be walking in there to watch TV but...”

You arrive at 12. I mask up, gloves and apron on and come to greet you. One of the paramedics knows you and he comes to talk to me on the doorstep. He’s kind. He’s upset. I’m calm. But that’s because I’m doing something, and the whole situation is quite frankly bizarre, and also because I haven’t accepted you are coming home to die.

You look worried. They bring you in and get you into bed, and there’s a conversation about working the bed and the oxygen machine and the stuff that’s come with them in bright orange bags. You thank them warmly and politely. He takes your hand and shakes it.

I see them out, come back, look at you lying there in your room and smile.

“I don’t want to be a burden, Crin,” you say.

“You so aren’t. Anyway, you’ve only just arrived. You haven’t had time to be a burden yet.” Breath. “But seriously, Dad, this is what I want.”

You relax. Look around at the cards and the little xmas tree S and family set up. I say something I’ve been thinking about.

“Dad, I’ll be guided by you but I want to talk about a future without you in it.”

“Well, I don’t feel like it’s the end,” you say in the matter of fact way you talk about everything from what to have for dinner to the state of politics today.

I try not to leap on that statement like a terrier to a tennis ball and run off with it clamped firmly between my jaws.

You ask for some milk suggesting that I bring it in a disposable cup.

“I think we should keep our standards up,” I say.

And when I bring it, you sip slowly and murmur that it’s nice to drink out of a glass.

I want you to feel relaxed, at home, and normal. Yes, this bloody virus is horrible and very infectious. I am being careful, for your sake and mine, but I’m not going to paint a red cross on the door. I have given you a bell, though—not to wear around your neck but to summon me. I need to sort a door bell system out. Already, my practical mind is problem-solving.

S and family arrive to visit you from your garden. It’s good you live in a bungalow. The family can stand outside the glass of your bedroom window and not break isolation. The sun shines brightly. They have come with instruments to serenade you with xmas carols. Rich, Sar and Liz set up music stands and the air resonates with the warm notes of tubas and trombones. S usually sings but she’s got the baby and is holding onto herself. I can see it in her eyes.

Liz leaves me a wireless doorbell and a bin. Our family is superbly practical in a crisis. The rest of the day passes in a blur of first visit from carers and making easy to digest food from scratch. Chicken broth and rice pudding. You manage a quarter of a mug of soup and a slice of bread.

As the night before winter solstice begins, I sit with you, gently massaging your hand and you doze. I haven’t told you yet that D and L aren’t coming. A child in L’s class is positive so they’re in isolation now for 10 days. It’s the you and me show, Dad.

Today was a good day. We’ll move forward, taking it moment by moment.