I stayed in my parents’ flat while they were in hospital. I’d never lived there, but it was familiar enough – they’d lived there for years. I could never understand why they had moved to a first floor flat when Dad enjoyed gardening so much. Certainly, that was my memory of Dad, spending time in the garden. Of me, Mum, sitting in the garden at the weekend or during the school holidays. So, it was strange when they both insisted Dad had never liked gardening, but did it because it had to be done… Still, I couldn’t understand why they would choose to live in a small flat with no outdoor space. Mum adored it, and they maintained it beautifully, right up until they were admitted to hospital. So, everything was clean and tidy with no clutter, but it was still homely.
How odd it was, though, that first day, letting myself in when neither of them were there. I’d left them both at the hospital, Dad in FAEU (Frail and Elderly Unit – Dad? Frail?! Unbelievable… It still seemed unbelievable. My strong father. Capable. Reliable. In a ward with people who looked as if they’d fall over if they tried to stand… But then, my Dad could no longer stand. He WAS frail…) Mum was in ENT…
As I keyed in the code at the main door, I was worried I’d not remembered it correctly. No, I had, and the door opened as I pushed. I ran up the stairs hearing my footsteps echo – it wasn’t as dark in the stairwell as I’d expected, though it was dark outside; a winter’s evening, cold and clear. My hand shook as I tried to put their key in the lock, but the door opened, I stepped inside, and immediately locked myself in. I was still shaking, partly with cold, mainly with fear. Fear of everything that had happened in the last couple of days, fear of what was to come… Ever practical I organised the space while the kettle boiled. Toiletries in the bathroom, nightwear by the bed. Coat tidily hung up, shoes in the hallway next to theirs. I made a cup of tea, still shaking, still being practical. Looking in the fridge to see what I could have for supper, taking a biscuit from the bread bin.
I carried my tea into their sitting room and sat on the sofa. It was the first time I’d properly stopped, alone, since I’d received Mum’s “We need you” text. There was no sound except the ticking of their clock. The clock they’d bought when they were first married, 59 years and 3 months ago… Mum was the only one who could wind it properly; it was very temperamental. It was there in my childhood, always… Always ticking, always chiming on the hour… In every phone-call I’d made to their house and then their flat, on the hour I’d hear it chime. There it was, still. Ticking loudly, then that buzz of the mechanism as it gathered it’s energy to chime the hour, then the slow, steady chime. That was the only sound in their flat. I sat there drinking my tea, looking around. Everything was, of course, exactly as it always was. Ornaments on the mantlepiece and bookcase, CDs below the little portable CD player, TV controls in a neat row underneath the TV and DVD player. Pictures on the wall – my degree graduation, my PGCE graduation, embroideries I’d made for them. Beside Mum’s seat on the sofa, a side table with her “Puzzle Break” book and a pen. I walked over to Dad’s chair and sat down, lifting the lever so the footrest shot out. It was hard for me to breath properly, just sitting there looking around the room. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different. I looked down to my left into Dad’s magazine rack, and saw his glasses case nestled among the copies of “Word Search”. A couple of biros at the bottom…. A bag of Thornton’s toffee!! That was a nice find. “Thank you, Dad” I said, as I unwrapped one. I needed the sugar, the comfort, the distraction.
Still the clock ticked, as I sat there thinking and yet not thinking. Just being… Such a relief after being efficient, cheerful and upbeat all day. Trying to ask the right questions of the medical staff, saying the right thing to my parents, making general chit-chat with the taxi drivers to and from the hospital. Just to sit, listening to the clock, was exactly what I needed. The clock still ticked, as it had done for my entire life – all 49 years and 10 months of it – and that gave me comfort.