Ole Blue Eyes

11th January 2012 Wednesday

When my sister and I leave him tonight my father gives us his little wave - cupping his fingers towards his palm - twice. He smiles his lopsided smile and his eyes follow us.

One or both of us have been with him all the time. We call him “Ole Blue Eyes - like Frank Sinatra”, and he laughs. Then he coughs and it rattles in his chest. Sometimes he’s in another world or a nightmare and he plucks at the sheet and pulls it over his head. Or he picks up my arm, his grip is strong, and raises it to his face or pushes it against the bed. When we ask him if he’s hot or cold he says No. Yesterday he couldn’t speak at all. He puts his hand on his chin and says very clearly,

It’s better to be misunderstood.....Since I had a stroke.....

He winces when the carer hauls him a bit further up the bed.

Are you in pain?

Yes.

Where?

In my back.

We put another pillow behind him and he sighs and sleeps briefly. He has a strange sweet and sour smell.

The carer wipes inside his mouth with a lemon flavoured glycerine stick.

When the rattle in his chest gets louder and more clacky I ask them to call the doctor. He comes with a nurse when it’s already dark outside. She will put a tube in his chest which will drip feed him morphine and something else to dry up his cough. He isn't eating or drinking.The doctor says it’s unlikely he will recover

I’m so grateful for today when my father was funny and a bit weird and he played with my hand - even though he thought it was something else - and when his blue eyes looked into mine I felt he knew me.

Tomorrow the morphine may take away his sparkle but at least it can’t take away the memory of this day.