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We tried finding Hazel (his sister) who he hasn’t spoken to for 26 years. I’ve never met my aunt, but I know she and my father had an argument over my grandmother’s funeral before parting ways. He had paid for his father’s funeral, but refused to pay for his mother’s because she never loved him.
Calling every possible lead in the local phone book, and going to the public affairs office (above picture), we realised it was futile. No hope in ever finding public records in such an unstable and poorly run country – especially when the little information remembered is from so far in the past and hazy at best.
My father told me of his overwhelming disappointment, and how his biggest regret is not succeeding in giving me the family I never had. (Once again I’m at the centre of everything he does.)
(Christmas dinner)
Within a few days his health deteriorated dramatically. He continually vomited any food within 10 minutes of eating. He became so weak that he couldn’t stand. It was a miracle that he survived the journey back to England.
After making it home he went directly to bed and stayed there for just over a day before I had him admitted to hospital. (I don’t know why I didn’t do it immediately – maybe I thought his strength would start to return given time to rest.)
Since he’s been in hospital I’ve visited him everyday without fail. It has reached a point where everything else in my life has ceased, and the days revolve around visiting times.
I told the discharge nurse that I will care for my father when he comes home. But the nurses believe it is literally an impossible task for me take on, as he currently requires 24 hour care from trained professionals. They were insisting on a nursing home – at least until he showed signs of improvement.
To prove that I am capable of looking after my own father, I came into the ward for 12 hours and took control of his care. The helpful nursing staff taught me some basic chores and techniques of caring for incapacitated patients.
One experience I will never forget is bathing my own father. I’ve shaved him a few times, which is in itself a unique experience for any son. But bathing him was something that affected me in a completely different way. His once stout body has withered to not much more than skin and bone. It felt like handling a corpse from Auschwitz. His regression back into an infantile state seems complete.
These days I try to tell him that I love him whenever I get the chance. And he has begun holding my hand for comfort. I would describe his mind as scared and confused, but still in tact.
Then came the bomb. I repeatedly insisted on a CT scan, even though the doctors were convinced there was nothing medically wrong with him – the vomiting had stopped and they said the only thing holding him back from recovery was his low mental state (they even prescribed anti-depressants). But I knew there was something else and continued to insist on further tests.
The results showed an advanced tumour in his brain. Untreatable. A few months ago he had major surgery for bowel cancer. That was a success. The doctors assumed the frequent vomiting was just a post surgery side-effect. If it wasn’t for this brain tumour, he could have made a full recovery and maybe lived into his 80’s.
Because of these new developments, the social workers and discharge nurse are doing their best to get him home to spend his last days in an environment he’s comfortable in and to be with me. There will be a hospital bed installed in our home and nurses coming to visit 4 times a day.
He has about 2 months left. He’s 76.
I can’t sleep, but I don’t want to be awake.
If only I could fall into a deep dream to escape this nightmare.
-January 2009