Michael Watson was
aged 50 in 1983. Margaret Thatcher formed her second government that year.
Michael’s father died. It was not a good year!
The night that
Gordon lay dying in the Norwich
hospital, Michael stayed by his side. It was cancer, after two strokes. A man
of physical and mental strength had been struck down suddenly. He was
unconscious, unshaven, undone.
It was a very hot
night of midsummer. An ineffective electric-fan hummed away in the ward, which was
silent, apart from the occasional cough from a nearby bed. Michael sat in his
shirt sleeves because of the humidity, staring at his father’s deadly pale
face.
The bedclothes
were drawn back from his father's hot, sweating body. He lay outstretched, inert,
on his back. His night-shirt was up round his waist. His usually flat stomach
was horribly swollen. Always a man proud of his appearance, there he was
unashamed, not knowing, his flaccid penis docile, lying across his abdomen. For
the last two weeks he'd even forgotten how to piss out of it. Once the cause of
so much domestic misery, it was, like its owner, now completely clapped out.
It seemed
incredible that, aged 79, the old boy had been walking his dog four miles a day
only a month before the first stroke had felled him. He had been digging and
tending his large garden, painting his house, finding any excuse he could to do
additional tasks for Michael and his family.
Just like it had always been -- putting Michael first!
Michael held his
father's hand during the hours of darkness, through the dawn and into daylight.
Still the old man slumbered on, his breathing irregular, moaning
intermittently. The doctor had said Gordon would soon be dead.
"A matter of
days at the most, Mrs Watson," he'd told Margaret, his wife. About 5.00am,
a nurse appeared and quietly pulled the curtains apart, the ones which were
screening Michael and his father from the rest of the ward.
"You look
all-in, love. Go down to the kitchen and get some breakfast! I'll sit with your
father while you're away."
Reluctantly,
Michael agreed. He was feeling very tired and hungry. He followed the signs
along the corridors of the quiet hospital and found his way to the kitchen. A
chef was just heating the ovens before preparing the patients’ breakfast. He
was a friendly bloke in a white coat and hat.
"Been up all night have you? Just hang on a
minute, I'll soon fix you something."
He made Gordon a
fry-up and chatted away about the Canaries' prospects during the next soccer
season. Michael gave some stock responses automatically, his mind back in the
ward with his father.
He ate some of the
food quickly, thanked the cook and went back to the ward. His father was in the
nearest, end bed, next to the doorway, the bed that was always bad news, the
one they put you in when you were soon going to be on your way out.
There was a doctor
with his father, bending over him, behind the screen of curtains which
surrounded the bed. The nurse was waiting to speak to Michael. ‘It's all right,’
Michael told himself. ’He's just checking in on him,’ he thought, knowing the
reality already.
"I'm so
sorry," the nurse whispered, her face blanching as Michael stood, staring
down at his father from the foot of the bed. Somewhere in the ward, a phone
started to ring. "I'm afraid you’ve missed him. He’s gone, went suddenly,
just after you left." She touched his arm, a gesture of comfort. Michael
didn't feel it.
Michael was
completely gutted. Hadn’t it always been like that? Michael never there when he
should have been! The old man had always been looking out for Michael. Always
wanted the best for him. Thousands of good deeds, personal sacrifices,
forgivings, a lifetime of giving and no taking. What, Michael pondered, had he
ever done in return?
The only time he'd
asked Michael to do anything substantial for him was when he'd begged to be
taken home recently from the hospital. Michael felt he'd failed him, like
always. It was no good telling himself that it was impossible to give him what
he desired: the family could no longer lift him, nurse him, could not look
after him. Hospital had been the only option.
Soon, Michael's
wife and mother arrived. After days and nights of vigil over Gordon, they'd
gone home for a sleep. They too had missed Gordon's ending. Not been there to
help him through his last short agony.
"It was very peaceful at the end," offered
the nurse who had been with him.
Before
the family left the hospital, someone took the ring off his father's finger and
gave it to Margaret. Margaret, quietly weeping, passed it silently on to
Michael. Michael slipped it over one of his own fingers. It was the same ring
that Gordon had had left to him by
Henry, Michael’s Granddad back in 1938... It was a funny feeling, suddenly
realising he was now the oldest male, the so-called head of the family!
The depth and
length of his bereavement shook Michael. He could not get the past out of his
mind. The good times and the bad. All of the colourful characters in his
Lancaster childhood, a childhood where his father had been his king. He
recalled mini family triumphs and joys -- and the terrible tragedies.
He grieved for
many days and nights. He became depressed. He started picking at spots on the
back of his hands and forearms, creating bloody patches. He lost weight. He
developed a twitching tick in his left cheek. He was becoming a nervous wreck.
His wife was sympathetic but could not comprehend it.
"You weren’t that close," she said.
"Weren't
we?" he responded gloomily, "That's what you think! Just because we
never made much of a fuss."
"I think it's the male menopause," she
replied.
He carried on brooding, thinking back to what had been
and what might have been.
Finally, he
decided to go back to Lancaster, to visit the places of his childhood. It might
help. See if there was anyone still there whom he knew. Take a few photographs.
Maybe write a bit down. His father had been a good man, always putting himself
second to the needs of others. Nobody spectacular, just a sort of unsung, town
Hampden.
The funeral was in
Norfolk, where Gordon had chosen to live during the last 10 years of his life.
He'd retired there to be near his son and grandchildren. It was a long way from
his native Lancaster. There were not many people at the funeral. The memorial
service seemed feeble, inadequate, not enough to celebrate his father's life.
The priest had never known him. Something was lacking. Perhaps they should have
had a Humanist’s funeral.
There and then,
Michael decided he wanted his kids to know what their grandfather had been like
when he was young. He wanted him to be remembered. He hoped they would be like
their granddad when they grew up. Better than his own inferior self, who was
nothing like so good a role model for them as his father had been for him.
