I Remember It All Too Well

How has it been a year?

A year since I walked out of that hospital. The same hospital where I was born, where I had multiple blood tests as a child (one of which was in my goddamn hand) and was later rewarded with a trip to the Disney Store. The hospital where I had my first general anaesthetic. The one where I had my first (and hopefully last) colonoscopy and almost knocked out the nurse looking after by repeatedly puffing gas and air in her face. The hospital that had been such a significant one in my life from the moment I was born. The one I’m now terrified to ever go into again.

In the words of Taylor Swift (obviously, because I can’t talk about anything without a reference to her), I remember it all too well. 

I remember the ward you were on with other patients. I remember being bombarded with PPE to put on because Covid was still very much a thing. I remember the smell of hospital food hot in the air. I remember seeing you the very first time and thinking “shit…this is serious.” 

I remember hearing you’d been put into isolation after coming into contact with a Covid patient, knowing you wouldn’t get any visitors for at least five days. I remember us getting the news we dreaded. That it was cancer. I remember feeling sick at the thought of you all alone, having to process that word and everything that came with it.

I remember you getting your own room, and feeling happier knowing you could get some rest. I remember you telling me to sit on the bloody chair properly when I visited – when I would sheepishly perch on the end of it, clutching my handbag for fear of germs.

I remember the day I drove around that goddamn car park for half an hour before I got a space. The guy who pulled out of one and waved at me and pointed to his empty space. I remember almost bursting into tears because this small act of kindness meant that I could finally get in to see you.

I remember being asked by someone on every single visit how to use the parking machine. I remember thinking that hospitals need to make their parking system much simpler. I still think that now.

I remember that journey to your room. Main entrance. Up the stairs to the second floor. Department B47. Down the corridor. Turn right. Room number two.

I remember that phone call. The news that makes a cancer diagnosis a million times worse. That it’s terminal. I remember visiting you the next day. The small talk we had. How you got upset. How I desperately tried to cheer you up by showing you pictures of Tilly.

I remember that small moment when I realised that this was real. When my allocated visiting slot was up, the healthcare assistant looked at me, smiled, and asked if I’d like a cup of tea. We’d had to book our visits in advance up until this point because of Covid. We had to wear masks. We had to sanitise our hands constantly. Yet, she offered me a cup of tea. That’s when I knew.

I remember visiting you that weekend. You’re telling me to sit on the bloody chair properly once again. I remember kissing you goodbye and telling you I’ll see you in the week. I remember meeting my friend for cocktails that evening. I don’t remember getting home, but I remember the hangover. I remember sitting on my sofa watching trash TV and eating Bunny Bites (the Tesco version of Pom-bears). I remember the phone call. The phone call that changed it all.

“Can you come now?”

I remember walking down that damn corridor again. Seeing you. The difference that occurred in less than 24 hours. The sandwiches we ate from the shop up the road. Leaving the hospital after midnight. Standing in the empty car park and feeling completely and utterly lost.

I remember the next day, when the doctor told us about potentially moving you to the local hospice. The one that I worked at.

I remember walking to the chapel. Being weirdly obsessed with everything that was going on behind all of those doors on the way there. Sitting in the chapel and just staring into space. The nausea. Going home for some food and trying to force myself to eat something. I remember going back and chatting to your friend who had come to visit. Your friend who was now a minister. The one read you your last rights while we watched with tears streaming down our faces.

I remember taking your hand and squeezing it. You couldn’t talk to me, but you still squeezed my hand right back. I remember those hours reading trashy magazines. Sitting in the family room for hours. I remember the next morning, where the doctors told us that moving you to the hospice would distress you too much, and that you may not even make the journey. That the best thing for you was to make you comfortable. The nurses kept bringing us tea and biscuits. It would have been a lovely family reunion in other circumstances.

I remember the nurse specialist. She talked directly to you, and she asked us to tell her about you. She told us you would probably go when we were all out of the room. I remember reluctantly agreeing that we would go and get some lunch. But then I remember things changing. Your breathing was different.

I remember us all realising what was happening. The moment we took your hand and stroked your hair. We told you that we were here. I remember thinking, “if you want to go, just go.” And then you did.

I remember the nurse coming in. The words “I’m sorry, he’s passed away” will be etched in my brain forever. But then, I remember the funniest, happiest two hours of this whole ordeal. We shared stories. We laughed. We cried. We laughed some more. And then it was time to go.

I remember helping to pack up your things. Your slippers. Your dressing gown. Your phone. Your toiletry bag. Your glasses. Your bloody glasses. I remember kissing you goodbye one last time, and telling you I loved you.

I remember that journey out of your room. Turn left. Down the corridor. Department B47. Down the stairs to the ground floor. A pitstop at the parking office because the angelic nurse specialist told us we shouldn’t be paying for parking.

I remember we us all hugging as we said goodbye, and then getting to my car as a member of the DDC.

I subsequently learned about your love of The Beatles, and it made me sad to know that I’d never talked about music with you. Not that you’d know who Taylor Swift is. We chose songs we thought you’d love for your funeral – In My Life and Blackbird. I hope we made you proud.

I still can’t believe that you’re gone. I replay that last day in my head all the time, and I still can’t get it over it. It hurts every fucking day. I know we weren’t particularly close, and we never lived in each other’s pockets, but I can’t even begin to put into words how much I miss you. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve wanted to tell you so much. I wanted to tell you about my promotion. The fact that one of my best friends has asked me to be godmother to her beautiful daughter. How I drove on the motorway for the first time in the pathetic ten years since passing my driving test.

I didn’t think it was possible to miss anyone as much as I miss you. I didn’t think it was possible for it to hurt as much as it does. All I can hope is that this time next year, it hurts a bit less.