25 December 2020

Christmas Day begins gently. All is calm and it starts bright. I open our present to you, a pair of cotton pyjamas, burgundy, paisley pattern. You raise your eyebrows as I read the tag D wrote. The nursing assistants dress you in the PJs and you look fabulous.

A few hours later, you are agitated and groaning. I phone the nurse, and she says it’s time to start the meds. She injects you with painkillers and a sedative. An hour later, you are even more restless, refusing oxygen and breathing through your mouth. Your heartbeat is rapid and loud. Your eyes are open, and you are staring at the ceiling. I ask if you’re frightened. You grip my arm with both hands, looking at me. I know you’re trying to tell me something, but I don’t understand what. You look terrified. I put the oxygen mask in your nose. With great effort, you pull it out. D talks to you on a video call, and I phone the district nurse again.

During today’s carol playing, the family’s eyes are flicking towards you with concern. The nurses inject you with more painkillers and sedatives. I don’t want them to, but I don’t want you to suffer. The lead nurse tells me to keep talking to you. Then she says, “You must be wishing he would die.” Fury fills me as I usher her out of the room. Still, I don’t leave until I’ve kissed your forehead. I make it clear to the nurse - that is not how I feel.

Then I come back to you.

“Never, in a million years, would I wish that,” I tell you. “I love you.”

I cook a half-hearted turkey dinner that I don’t want to eat. Back in another dimension, five short days ago, when I was convinced I could nurse you back to health with oils and herbal medicine, I asked the family to send one of those little turkey joints. Enough for two, you and me, keeping our standards up.

You’re long past eating, and you refuse even a drop of water.

I’m worried and exhausted, and I can’t settle. I’m in and out of your room, radiating calm I don’t feel. By evening, the village is cut off by flooding, and the NAs can’t get through. At this point, I’m not even surprised, and I don’t even mind. I wash you, and moisturise you, and wet your dry mouth. I sit with you. I play radio drama. Holding your hand, rubbing your shoulder. By late evening, you’re more relaxed but still puffing like a pregnant woman practicing Lamaze. As hard as it all is, I know we’ve done the right thing. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going through this alone in hospital. I replace the oxygen mask, wanting to give you a break from working so hard for air.

I tell you how very loved you are. I reflect on the kindness you’ve known and on how you’ve returned that love unconditionally. I tell you a silly thing that is comforting me. I’m imagining you are moving to the other side of the world, in a different time without planes and internet and instant communication, so we won’t be able to talk to you or hear from you. I imagine we are all getting together to see you off wishing you well for your journey.

I grab some sleep. I'm full of dread, but I wouldn't be anywhere else but here.