‘And if he couldn’t do those things, I’m standing here wondering how he could’ve made it to the stairs alone.’ My head starts to pound and a heavy shiver moves through my bones. Sandy said she was outside. I drop my head into my hands and rub my fingers roughly into my eye sockets. Of course she was. This is insane. He obviously did struggle to get out of bed; that’s why everything is such a mess.
15
I’m nestled into the corner of the sofa under the lounge lamp, my knees curled up in my leggings to make a table for my sheets of case law, when my dad walks through the front door. I hear him place his keys on the side table and drop his bag by the hat stand, then make his way to the lounge.
‘Hello, darling. You’re still up.’
‘Reading case law for Torts,’ I say, holding up the documents on my lap. ‘Sandy left your supper in the oven.’
‘Is she in bed?’
‘Yes. She fell asleep watching a movie.’
‘Just us then.’
Dad turns a crystal glass from the bar table the right way up and pours himself a glass of his single malt Scotch from a decanter.
‘Would you like one?’ he asks.
‘I’m okay, thanks.’
‘It’s nice coming home to see you in the holidays. I miss you in term time.’ He takes a seat on the sofa next to me. He leaves his coat and scrubs at work but I can still smell the hospital corridors in his beige cords and caramel jumper. ‘Torts, eh? Negligence.’
‘Mmm-hmm, not my favourite. I’m reading a clinical negligence case just now, actually.’
‘Duty of care, professional skill?’
‘Yep.’
He takes a small sip of his Scotch and sighs heavily.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’
‘Yes, sweet pea, I’m just tired. It’s been a long shift.’
I put my case law on the coffee table and lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. ‘You’ve got sad eyes, not tired eyes. You’ve come straight in and poured yourself a neat Scotch, and even though the house smells of Sandy’s pastry, you haven’t even gone to look at the pie in the oven.’
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses my brow. ‘Do you remember Mr Harrington, Gareth Harrington?’
Of course I remember. One of the few patients my dad has ever referred to by first name. Gareth Harrington has been in Dad’s care for almost a year and a half. He was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour that was wrapped around his spinal cord. He was told he had six months to live.
‘The man that no one else would agree to operate on,’ I say.
Gareth has two young daughters and a wife. When Dad looked at the scans, he knew all he could offer would be time, but he told the family that he would try, if that was what they wanted. They begged him to operate.
‘Yes, that’s him. He’s back in hospital now.’
‘He’s sick again?’
‘I guess he was never better. Not really. It was never possible to remove the whole tumour, but it’s grown back and there’s nothing more I can do.’
‘Is he palliative?’
‘I’m afraid so. He might have a week.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I know you like him and his family.’
Dad rests his chin on my head. ‘He’s stuck in a bed. He can’t hold a conversation and today, the nurses couldn’t get him onto a commode so they’re taking his food away in the morning.’ With a gulp, he drains the remainder of his Scotch and rests the empty glass on his knee. ‘Sometimes, I wish we were like dogs. The way it all ends for dogs, it’s humane. When it’s the end and the dog is ill, we don’t pretend. We do what’s fair. We recognise that they’re in pain, that they have no quality of life, that they don’t want to be around any more and we make a decision to cuddle them whilst we put them to sleep and send them to a better world, a world where they won’t hurt.’
