I unpack the books I’ve brought him, which he examines noncommittally, as if not sure what they are. ‘And what’s inthis?’ He glowers at the large paper bag as if he’s never seen such a thing before. A bag with the pharmacist’s logo clearly displayed. What does he think is in it? Turnips?
‘I picked up your prescription, Dad.’Don’t rise to him,I remind myself.Don’t rise, don’t rise, don’t rise!
‘Why do they think I need all this stuff?’ Huffing, as if the medications are foisted on him for no reason, he starts to pull out the various packets. Always robustly fit – he worked as a high-ranking electrical engineer at a shipyard – Dad experienced his first ever health crisis last summer. He collapsed, alone, right here in this flat.
Still just about conscious, what hedidn’tdo was call me – his daughter and sole offspring, living a convenient fifteen-minute drive away. He didn’t call an ambulance either. Instead he somehow navigated all those stairs and climbed into his car. And then – a silly old heart attack won’t stop Kenny Munro! – hedrove himself to hospital.
It was the talk of the acute coronary ward. Once Dad was out of danger, Frank expressed surprise that he hadn’t stopped by at the supermarket to see if there were any yellow-stickered bargains to be had.
And I was shocked to discover that my father had a heart at all.
So now it’s all packets of pills – seven kinds a day –which Dad is unpacking slowly, suspiciously, as if they may be radioactive. Reluctantly, he has also stopped driving, and I suspect this has only served to crank up his ill humour.
‘What’sthis?’ he barks.
Something thuds inside me as he glares at the yellow box. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s Citrolax. That stuff you mix up with water to make a drink—’
‘Yes, I can see that. But why have they given me it?’
‘I did tell them, when I left a message on the surgery answerphone. I said you definitely don’t need any more—’
‘I’veneverneeded it!’ As if the presence of laxative powders in my father’s home is a personal affront.
‘No, I know that, Dad.’
‘So why do they keep giving me it?’ He glares as if I’m in cahoots with them – the mysterious ‘them’, who are convinced he can’t poo without help.
Don’t-rise-don’t-rise-don’t-rise.‘It’s a mistake, obviously. Just throw it away,’ I say lightly.
‘What, and waste it?’ Dad hates waste. On my last visit, suspecting that danger lurked, I quickly checked the bottom shelf of his kitchen cupboard. There sat a whole stash of vintage tinned steak and kidney pies, dented and rusting and emitting the threat of death. I made a mental note to deal with them next time.
Sure, he’ll go mad, if he notices. But better than him being poisoned by prehistoric offal, surely? How would I live with myself if Dad died after eating that? Today – daringly – I plan to smuggle the tins out of his flat.
Right now, he’s still rumbling on about the Citrolax. ‘Keep it then,’ I suggest, ‘in case you need it one day.’
‘Why will I need it?’
‘Well, you might have, y’know, bowel trouble—’
‘Iwon’thave bowel trouble,’ he says, aghast.
‘Great! Fine! Throw it away then.’
‘But these things cost money.’
‘No, Dad. Prescriptions in Scotland are free.’
‘It’s taxpayers’ money, isn’t it?’
I open my mouth to reply but find myself staring mutely at the box.Throw it over your balcony for the seagulls for all I care! Or sprinkle it over your toast and then see what happens—
‘Can you ring them and tell them to stop sending it?’
As far as communicating with his GP is concerned, Dad will at least permit my involvement. But only because the surgery’s call queueing system drives him to fury.
‘Yes, no problem, Dad.’ I inhale slowly and fully, like Pilates Wendy is always telling us to. At the same time you’re supposed to ‘expand’ your ribs, although I’ve never quite grasped this.Push out your ribs at the sides, Carly. Picture your body flooding with oxygen.
‘Something wrong with you?’ Dad frowns.
