The vervet monkey on
the laundry fence has balls that rival your blue eyes.
In this broken body,
your eyes are beautiful, clear whites, no sign of the pterygiums that plagued
you.
I recall the two
operations and countless bottles of eye drops.
You have no need for
your glasses either and I see those eyes clearly. Penetrating.
I am deep in tears
when they stop seeing me.
Was there one more
moment when you looked?
Did I feel your lips
pucker lightly on my cheek?
I sit.
Your left foot moves
with a light shudder now and again, the deformed nail visible, your toes deeply
curled, but your foot is unblemished, smooth and fine boned.
Your left hand is
perfect, the fingers long and straight with deep nail beds; your nails are to
be admired.
Today we hold hands.
So many years of just
patting your hand and only now do I hang onto this same hand?
You grip firmly.
Reflex? I do not really care. It feels comforting for me.
Out the windows the
sky echoes the blue I am looking at.
What colour are these
curtains though, pink, orange, somewhere in between and they match that plant
flourishing in the garden beyond the tar.
You have always been
a quiet man and now you are silent.
They say the hearing
remains as death nears, where are my
words, they are failing me, and my vigil is in silence.
Beyond silence even,
I am mute.
‘My Daddy”. Where does this longing come from, you have
always been Dad.
Distracted.
A small black spider
moves quickly along the basin, a fly has found its way into the room, this so
called Angel Room with its broken pane of glass, even a midge or two catch my
awareness.
I did not know that
watching you being shaved by Freeman would be the last time, I could not begin
to reason that this is your last day.
I lean forward and
stroke your hand; I follow the deep valleys between the tendons and veins,
strong, firm and graceful.
Your outline has been
unchanged for a few years now, yoga tree pose, right leg tucked up high along
the left leg, the rigidly bent right arm and clawed right hand all evidence of
that long ago first stroke that did not take you from us, we had 17 more years
with you.
I sit in gratitude.
I am tongue-tied during
this day but my mind dances with thoughts.
I watch the bubbles of regret that surface; I
look at them, and match your breathing to come back to the present.
It exhausts me, you
breathe deep from your belly, your chest straining and even the shoulder is
engaged to do work.
What does it mean
when they say you are not suffering.
Does the morphine
make you oblivious to your red-faced coughing as you gasp for air?
I appreciate that
some day the memories of this, your last day, will join all my other memories
of you that span more than five decades.
But I cannot access memories right now, I am stuck in this day.
Gently rubbing your
chest and shoulders I am in awe of your dignity.
How I respect you, my
gentleman father and the legacy you leave me with.
Apart from saying that
aging is not for sissies you have never complained.
You ask us to care
for each other and you have been our role model on how to do that.
The Angel Room is not
quiet.
The mattress vibrator
clicks in and out of action, I can feel the rise and fall under my hand, the
fan whirs trying to cool down this South Coast heat, staff come and go, the
floor gets a lick of water, red-winged starlings are calling, the continual
action of D-floor happens around us both.
The comings and
goings have no interest to you, no more irritation or light frowning.
A cup of tea and a
syrupy sweet mug of coffee for me are welcomed as the day lengthens.
I focus on the framed
photos on the bedside table.
Our sisterhood
reflects in our broad happy smiles, you had that same smile, you love us and we
love you in turn.
Whole-heartedly.
Tears blur my vision
when I watch your mouth, now a straining gaping hole, dry, a deep bubbling from
the back of your throat as the flem builds and attempts to drown you.
I am
picking up an new odour.
Heart, keep beating
please.
But, I want it to
gave up gracefully, I do not want you to be on your own.
A damp, cool towel
works its little bit of magic. As I gently wipe your face your brows lift in
response, Dad you are here with me still.
You are gaunt, with
eyes deeply sunken, what regal cheekbones, I run my hand over your sunken cheeks.
You loved food and
today you can no longer eat or drink.
I come empty handed.
My arm has gone numb,
I slowly remove my hand, you shake in response, I text some updates to my
sisters who wait in the same pain as me for the answer to the question ‘when?’
I am so tired and
wait for the 6pm morphine, that 1ml syringed into the back of your throat.
The call comes later
that night.
Hello Mooi Havens?
My physical body
response is violent, the arrogance of thinking I would be prepared for the message
from the empathetic voice on the phone.
Make the calls, find clothes,
a late night drive, dark buildings, security guards, sliding door, a corridor.
I notice that I still
respect your privacy under the worn, thin white sheet.
I take a deep breath,
try to still my heart, and ease down the sheet from over your face.
A pillow necklaces
your chin, your mouth no longer strains with each breath, it is so firmly shut
now, as are your eyes.
I kiss you goodbye. And
again.
The last time I hold
your hand it is so soft, cooling, malleable, broken hearted I revert to patting
your hand as I wait for your last bed to arrive.
I sit, I am so proud to be one of your girls; you are my ever-loving
father.
John Ennis Wedderburn
22 June 1929 – 18
April 2016
