One Afternoon

Morgan Downie

It wasn't an exceptional day, nobody died at any rate, at least no-one I recall. I do remember him and what I remember most clearly is centred on that day, that afternoon, just after one o'clock. Of the rest I can't be so sure, time makes the memory uncertain, blurs events, puts the actions of one person in the hands of another. Back then I tried to remember all their names, now I don't even count numbers. But I do remember his name, not that it makes a difference. My daughter used to ask me for details, stories. These are people, I said, real people, not entertainment, they could be your granny, your mother, me, it's no good pretending they're someone else. She stopped asking after that.

What was different about him was not that he didn't want to die, most people don't, at least not at first, but that he wanted to live. Not so that he could climb a mountain, learn to fly, run that marathon he'd always planned, but just more life, for nothing in particular, daily things, more time with his wife, one more sunrise, one more breath. I remember the day he lost the feeling in his feet. His consultant told him not to worry, that it was only to be expected. That's because they're not his feet I said. It became like a chemotherapy joke between us. He liked to laugh. He had liked those feet. He was the sort of man you'd want as your unofficial uncle, the guy next door who's always up for a kick about, can fix lawnmowers, who gives you the type of advice you want to listen to, even when you're young and daft.

On that day, that last day, I hadn't seen him in a while. He must have been home and I'd probably been on annual leave. I was shocked at his appearance; the disease had eaten him up. His limbs were weak, his eyes huge in his head, I could pick him up in my arms. In the interim it'd been decided we could do no more for him, that the acute phase of his treatment was over and that the best place for his remaining care was the hospice. When I came in that back shift they were waiting for the ambulance crew. Don't let them take me away he was saying. You'll get better care I told him and I knew it was true and I told myself it was true even if it felt like a lie. All he wanted was to feel like there was a chance. The last I saw of him, as his wife was crying, the staff were crying, not me though, that would come later, sneaking up on me like it still does, the last I saw of him were those eyes looking back at me. We never said goodbye.

It wasn't an exceptional day, I've had worse, but it's the one I remember. I still do the same type of work, never quite got out of the way of it, never managed the escape velocity to leave. The difference since then is that I've started to live more, to notice things, to take more care. Not just for him, not for all those other people whose lives I've passed through who never had the chance, but for me. Every day is a watershed, every day is special and I remember this story and the hundred hundred others like it to keep me on track so that it's never quite too late to have a last snatch at life.