On Christmas day Les died. His battle with cancer lasted just five months. It did not fit the television or newspaper story of a cancer sufferer fighting and, sometimes, beating the deadly disease. His story was one of a quick decline without a chance or choice to fight.
The lung cancer that killed him didn’t cause him that much pain as the concoction of drugs did its best to relieve the agony of fighting for every breath. It did however, cause some of the most agonising pain for those of us around him.
We sat up with him through the night from the 21st of December as he slowly but restlessly began to close down. The clarity of his communications deteriorated rapidly and was one of the most distressing aspects of the whole process. One word at a time, often minutes apart, was the most we could hope for.
The nurses that attended the house were without exception caring and professional to both Les and the family but in retrospect, deconstructing their comments and actions, it was clear to them the time was near. The Nurse who came on Christmas morning gave him a shave and a wash something which none of the other nurses had done. She left saying that whomever had ‘done the night shift’ should get plenty of sleep today. It might have been totally coincidental but she knew it would be a rough night if he made it that long. However, I now fully understand why people call these nurses angels.
The terminal restlessness seemed to ease on Christmas day but it’s difficult to say whether that was because Les had made it that far, his abiding wish since diagnosis in August was to be around at Christmas, or the increase in his pain medications.
I cooked lunch and the day progressed pretty much as normal with the opening of presents and crap on the telly. The background thud of the oxygen machine and the occasional motor sound of the hospital bed in the corner of the room the only difference from any other family Christmas.
The turkey was carved, the table was set and all that remained was the gravy. I stood beside the microwave waiting for it to ping. That’s when Les died. Poetically when Christmas lunch was ready so was he.
It’s not so much the dying that I found hard it was the waiting. First a doctor has to come and certify the death. Then a nurse to remove the needle and drugs. Then the funeral director. It took about two and a half hours in all but it felt like an eternity.
Then once he was gone that was it. Time to clear up, move the room back to how it was. Tell the people who needed to be told and arrange the arrangements. It’s the never ending truth that life goes on even mere hours after death.
The funeral was on the 2nd of January and was grim too. However, I’ve been to three post-funeral ‘parties’ now and it’s amazing how a funeral can be framed in two distinct halves. The first is the funeral itself a horrible experience where the mood is sombre and bleak. The second is more entertaining, for want of a better word, the language changes, the volume goes up, there’s even some laughter. People talk about the ’service’, bitch about relatives and generally group together in some weird mass participation support event.
Before he died Les told Joan that he wanted me to have his pocket watch. It was his retirement present for 25 years of loyal service at Greenbat Ltd. He got it in 1977, the year I was born. As with all gifts of this nature it’s not the item itself that’s important but what it represents. I’m currently unable to put in to words what that is. Partly because I don’t fully understand yet and party because words aren’t an adequate measure. Time is a great healer though so in years to come perhaps I’ll work it out.
Goodbye Les
