When it came to Dad’s diet, it wasn’t the best in the world but by no means was it the worst either. He did, however, lead what was for the majority of his days a sedentary lifestyle, which couldn’t have been good for him. He was either sat in his car driving to and from work, sat at home in his favourite chair or sat at work doing his sums as a wages clerk for the local health authority.
On the face of it, maybe not such a healthy existence, but then again he didn’t drink, he went to bed at 10.30 every night, he led a nine to five existence which seemed pretty stress-free, and he enjoyed a steadfastly sound and happy marriage.
In short, I think the things he did do that were bad for him were counteracted by countless other things that he didn’t do that could have been bad for him. I’m guessing he might have expected to make his early seventies at least.
Smoking is obviously the main suspect when it comes to the demise of people like Dad and can be merciless, but when my father died the docs said he had the lungs of a non-smoker—a fact Mum loves to reel out to anyone who will listen. She has a library of such facts from her life that she never wants us to forget, but this is perhaps her favourite.
Dad was hardly ever ill. In fact I only ever recall him being ill twice. Once with the thing that eventually killed him and the other time when he had earache.
I remember the occasion when he had earache as if it were yesterday. I was attending the grammar school when out of nowhere one morning, Dad said he would be able to give me a lift, something he had not been able to do since my leaving the juniors. I usually took the bus.
He had taken the morning off work to go to the doctors and found himself with half an hour to spare. This was another one of those all-round cool situations—a total win-win, it meant I got to be with Dad for an extra fifteen minutes, plus it spared me the bus fare, which gave me extra sweet purchasing power—whoopee!
Dad drove us both proudly on our journey in our usual car mode of near silence. We didn’t talk much. For my part I didn’t feel we needed to. I have no idea of Dad’s thoughts on the matter. Was I the quiet one or was I quiet because he was quiet? Dad didn’t do car radios either—‘They only attract attention,’ he would say—hilarious!
Three miles later and there we were pulling up outside the main gates of the grammar school in our big, old, navy blue Vauxhall Victor. What a fine motor car that was—there’s nothing like the smell of vinyl in the morning.
After bidding each other farewell, Dad drove off to his doctor’s appointment while my mind turned to focusing on the far more important task of sweet selection with the spare cash I now had in my pocket.
The doctor duly examined both Dad and his ear but to no avail, he could find nothing wrong with either. Consequently he did what most doctors do in such circumstances and ordered a series of ‘tests’, a phrase I learnt to dread. It was the same doctor who would fail to spot Dad’s bowel cancer.
Mum had noticed Dad was acting a little strangely, especially when it came to his private business. She confronted him one day, at first he was embarrassed, but being a nurse she persisted and discovered that things were not at all as they should be.
Dad said he’d been to see his doctor, something that Mum was furious about as he had not told her this until now. They were a couple that had few, if any, secrets and this revelation did not go down well. Dad went on to tell Mum that he had been sent for more tests but the results had proved inconclusive. His doctor’s prognosis therefore was simply that Dad had an irritable stomach and so was prescribed Epsom salts.
This last piece of news sent my mum into apoplexy. She was more than aware of how easily things could go wrong as the result of a misdiagnosis, having seen such episodes at work. She ordered Dad to go and see her doctor immediately.
Mum and Dad had always had different doctors. It was the one thing I never understood about them. All us kids went to Mum’s doctor as in her opinion he was the best in town; now it was Dad’s turn.
Our doctor referred Dad straight away. As a result he was admitted to hospital. Upon further examination it transpired that Dad was riddled with cancer and there was nothing anyone could do to help him.
Had he been diagnosed in time, there was a good chance he could have been saved.
Mum was absolutely livid. She was told in no uncertain terms that within six to eight weeks, the man she had loved for her entire adult life would no longer be alive.
She is still justifiably very angry about it to this day.
Dad was a good man, a saint in her eyes. He had never wronged anyone, he had always put his family first and now here he was lying in a hospital bed unaware that he was dying.
Mum wanted him home. She wanted him home and she wanted him home now. The first night Dad had been admitted to the hospital the man in the next bed had died. As they wheeled away his body one of the porters gestured to Dad, who he thought was asleep, and whispered, ‘He’ll be next.’
This broke Mum’s heart, she could see that for the first time since she had known him, her husband was frightened.
Dad did come home and somehow Mum managed to turn those six to eight weeks into eighteen months, that’s how long Dad lasted with her tender love and care.
The irony of it all was that Mum and Dad never discussed the seriousness of his condition. Mum thinks Dad knew it was terminal but she can’t be certain. She says that the only time he ever alluded to the fact that he might not be around for much longer was when he once told her, ‘If anything happens to either of us, we will always be there for the other in the eyes of our children.’ Still one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.
As much as Mum didn’t discuss the inevitability of his condition with Dad, nor did she discuss it with either my sister or brother and I. As far as we knew Dad was very sick, of that there was little doubt, but we had no idea he was so sick he was going to die.
Dad had been ill for over a year when one evening Mum, who had just finished attending to him, came down to the kitchen which I was currently using as a workshop for my bike. It was a dark night and cold and wet outside so Mum said I could tinker indoors. My bike now upside down, I was busy cleaning the spokes, oiling the chain, and carrying out other vital maintenance when she came in.
‘Oh hi, Mum,’ I said, still focused on what I was doing.
‘Hello luv.’ She sounded down, really down. I looked up to see she was absolutely shattered. Not only that but there was something else wrong. She closed the door behind her, leant against it and looked up towards the ceiling, half as if to plead for some kind of intervention and half to stop the tears, which were now clearly visible welling up in her eyes.
Immediately I began to feel both panic and fear. I had never seen Mum even come close to crying before.
‘What’s up?’ I asked in that kind of uncertain, nervous way a kid asks when he hopes the answer is going to be ‘nothing’.
‘It’s your dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s just so ill, love.’
Well, we knew he was so ill, very very ill, but ill people get better—that’s something we also knew, that’s what had always been the case. Other less fortunate people died but they weren’t ill, they were dying—our dad was not one of those.
‘I know he’s ill, Mum, but he’s going to get better, don’t worry.’ I said.
The tears were now streaming down Mum’s cheeks as if trying to speak on