My Dad Died on a Saturday Afternoon

Dave Kerr

My dad died on a Saturday afternoon, He had been unwell for most of the year, diagnosed with cancer, inevitably it claimed him.

His life had been typical of his generation, work, drink, family, drink, work, drink.

A self made business man, proud of the joinery company he had started from nothing, proud of his craft and proud of his family, but drink turned him into an irrational bitter alcoholic. A lying, cheating, caricature of the man he had been.

It killed his business, his self respect, the respect of his family and others around him.

I watched all this as I grew up in awe at how my mother managed a family of five and found the strength to be the glue that held us all together. She coped. She deserved better.

She never stood a chance; the relentless journey of this incredibly emotional and complex man was always destined to crash and burn to the finishing line. Only he, could almost find life, and then end it, as a shell, on a lonely hospital bed.

We visited him, that Saturday. He was pathetically frail and was struggling to speak but his eyes lit up when he watched Mum, all fresh lippy and pan drops - her usual pre-match routine, walk down the corridor.

He was in a small room on his own, with a view. He never looked out.

He would sit and look at nothing, at a space about four feet in front of him.

I watched him and would have given anything to know what was going through his mind. Was he full of regret or remorse? Did he hate the world for his pain? Did he think about death, did he wish or pray, did he cry, did he just want it to stop.

We tried our best to chat normally, the unusually cheery banter alien to a family used to argument and blame.

I sat on the end of his bed and watched him as my mother folded the pleats on her skirt and continued to talk up the benefits of having a room to yourself ; I could do with a few weeks in here getting attended to day and nightshe couldnt, her words were as comforting as throwing a piano to a drowning man.

She continued to play through the top ten hospital visit time fillers, handbag disembowelment, glasses on, glasses off, paper handkerchief folding.

He turned and gently touched my knee.

He was tracing something with a wasted finger on the sheet of his bed. At first I couldnt understand what he was trying to tell me but as my mother moved into the top five - card reading, it eventually dawned on me he was tracing #1 with his finger and nodding at me. When I eventually broke the code I looked into his face, his eyes were wet, tears just held back and he smiled as I nodded that his effort had hit the mark. I could feel the heat of holding back my own tears as we looked at each other, possibly for the last time. I looked away and tried through snot and choke to say silly auld bugger but only managed to swallow the words.

He died shortly after we left the hospital.

Returning with mum to my sisters house we decided to try, as usual, to give an upbeat visit update.

The phone call interrupted our positive spin.

I drove back in to the hospital in a silent car.

I sat with dad, wanted a little time alone. His number 1 sign had left me feeling that I at least owed him that.

In that dark wee hospital room, I touched his cold hand.

The suffering and pain of the previous months had left him skinny and grey. One of the nurses told me they nicknamed him their little sparrow, she meant to lighten the mood, but felt a little embarrassed once the words were out, she was right though, a wee spent body with a beak of a nose, it was a perfect description.

Its strange how so many things flash through your head as you look at a body that has been used and left behind.

I needed to talk to him, wanted reasons and explanations for the inexplicable.

He wasnt there, my own Scottish dourness and natural heartlessness managing only more snot and oaths of self pity.

My mind played toe curling memories of his life, and felt that sinking feeling of recognising myself in him, his actions, his foolishness, his mistakes, picking at my thumb as he had done. That feeling still lingers and nips me every now and then, even now.

23 McCall Gardens 1967, the sheer bliss of my sister and me cuddled in to him on a Sunday morning, singing wee cooper. Him, still smelling of Saturday night fags and booze then up for cheese and toast was the best.

Im glad I had that few minutes in stillness, the gentle hum of hospital the only sound in my ears. I remember thinking please dad dont sigh or make dead people noises, he didnt. My pants remained forever grateful.

There is a dignity in strength and fight, but little in being kept alive when your body is done. My dad knew that the last time I saw him. He stayed alive until he could be held by my mum, they touched that last time like old lovers with honest care and pain and hurt and a love that only they understood.

In that moment she handed him back all the dignity and respect he had wasted and needed right then.

My mum died the following week, a massive heart attack.

She fell at the foot of his grave placing flowers there with my sister and brother and his family.

Someone said later, he had called for her and she went to him.

I hope wherever they are, they are together; he couldnt live or even die without her.

Selfish B******.