What had the nurse said? “It won’t be long now”? That didn’tbode well. I struggled weakly to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. There waspain in my throat. The blonde woman saw me struggling to speak and squeezed myhand tighter.
“It’s OK, Dad,” she said.
I gazed into her wide, blue eyes, tinged with the tears shewas struggling to hold back as she spoke again. I was finding it difficult tostay awake.
I had no idea what was happening and all I wanted to do wasdrift off to sleep. I felt my eyelids begin to droop.
“I love you, Dad,” said the blonde woman. The last thing Isaw was a single tear roll down her cheek and drip onto my hand, as my eyesclosed for the final time.
I heard the beep-beep-beep from the machine change to onecontinuous long beep as darkness descended in front of me. My final thought was:this isn’t so bad, it’s just like going to sleep.
Cancer
December 2024
I awoke with a start. The same nurse I had seen the daybefore was drawing back the curtains, letting shafts of bright sunlight pourinto the room.
Little points of dust twinkled in the sunbeams comingthrough the window in front of a piercingly bright blue sky beyond, unbrokenexcept for a flock of starlings circling back and forth in the distance. Thelight was so bright, it hurt my eyes.
So, I wasn’t dead then. That wasn’t difficult to work out. Ididn’t feel as bad as I had the previous morning. I could still feel the dullache in my chest, and all the wires and tubes were still there, but I felt alittle more with it than I had the last time I had woken up. Was I gettingbetter?
The nurse turned towards me and spoke: “How are you feelingthis morning, Mr Scott?” she asked.
I managed to croak a reply “A little better, thank-you,”struggling to remember her name. As she came towards me to plump up my pillows,I caught sight of the badge on her uniform and quickly added, “Carmen.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Your daughter’s coming in to seeyou later. It looks like it’s going to be a lovely sunny day.”
As the nurse left the room, I managed to sit up a little,which wasn’t easy with all the bits attached to me, and pondered my situation.
I still felt very weak, but my mind was a little clearernow. My eyesight was a little blurry, but I could see enough to make out mygeneral surroundings.
It was a private room, with its own bathroom in the corner,a flat-screen television embedded in one wall, and a cosy-looking sofa andchairs in the far left-hand corner. Pretty good by NHS standards, assuming thiswas an NHS hospital. There was no obvious way of knowing.
So, I knew what the NHS was, that I was in a hospital, andthat I was clearly very ill. I knew my name was Mr Scott, but that was onlybecause the nurse had addressed me as such. I had no idea what my first namewas.
I also knew I had a daughter, about whom I knew nothingother than what I had learnt during our brief interaction the previous day, andthat was not a lot.
The nurse came back into the room and helped me to sit up.“Do you feel up to any breakfast?” she asked. “The trolley’s here.”
“I’ll try,” I replied, but I didn’t feel very hungry. Withher assistance I sat up and managed to take a few sips of orange juice but Ididn’t fancy any food. I was feeling pretty nauseous and felt sure I wouldbring anything up that I might try to eat.
“Would you like to watch television?” asked Carmen.
“Please,” I croaked, weakly. I didn’t think the TV was goingto shed any more light on my situation, but it would be a distraction at least.
The nurse propped up my pillows behind me, allowing me tosit up, and flicked on the TV. It was showing the rolling news channel whichwas reporting on some conflict in the Middle East I knew nothing about. Thecountry names were familiar to me, but that was all.
The screen switched to an image of London, showing a scene Iinstantly recognised, the familiar backdrop of Big Ben and the Houses ofParliament. I listened intently to what was being said.
“Preparations are underway in London for tonight’s NewYear’s Eve spectacular, which promises to be the biggest and the best ever. TheMayor said that the increased sales from tickets this year meant that anadditional quarter of a million pounds was being spent on the fireworksdisplay, which he boldly claimed would be the best in the world.”
Now I was starting to feel a little confused. What was wrongwith my memory? I was sure that my daughter had wished me a Happy New Year theprevious day, so how could today be New Year’s Eve? Whatever my illness was, itwas playing tricks with my mind.
Perhaps I had dementia. The effort of thinking about it allwas making me tired, and I lay back down on the bed.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I canremember is that my daughter was sitting once again by the bed. I was feelingpretty awful now, a gnawing, agonising pain eating away at the inside of mychest.
The clear sky beyond the window had turned a darker shade ofblue as night began to fall. The clock on the bedside table read 3.58pm.
“How are you feeling, Dad?” she asked.
I struggled to speak through the pain: “not too good, mylove” was about all I could muster. I couldn’t call her by her name, because Istill didn’t know what it was.
“Do you want me to call the nurse?” she asked.
“Please,” I croaked. “I’m in pain.”
She pressed a red button on the wall behind me, and Carmenreturned to the room. “He’s really suffering,” said my daughter. “Is thereanything you can do?”
“I’ll have to get the doctor,” replied Carmen.
While she was gone, I decided it was time to try and findout what was happening.
“Honey, I’m struggling with my memory. I can’t seem toremember anything. Why am I here?” I asked, hoping that “honey” was an OK
