The thief in the night...

19 December 2020 – The day I lost my father to Covid.

Just writing that sentence makes my legs feel a little lame, but through writing, I’m praying for a little catharsis, some relief from this rawness in my body.

I remember only 3 distinct phone calls from that day.

We were driving. Everyone in the car was quiet – each of us weighed down with fear and stress.  My dad was sick, really sick. 

Covid pneumonia.

The first call: “They had to put your dad on a ventilator, they couldn’t wait anymore”

Wait.

WAITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.

I remember my body going stiff and starting to cry and hyperventilate a little, trying to squash myself into the bottom of my seat. I’ve watched the news enough to know… he was going to go this alone now.  No one was there holding his hand. No one was there to tell him it would be okay. To not be scared.

The thought made me want to vomit.

Dale put his hand on my leg.  “It’s going to be okay Tash – your dad needs this.  His body is tired, he needs this type of oxygen support right now.  This is not a bad thing”.

I tried to hang on to that and believe him.  I couldn’t. Good things don’t happen to me.

The second call came a few hours later. It was the doctor. 

We’d been in a sort of zombie state – my sister and I, wrapped up in our own terror and pain.

“Natasha, Tracy. I had to put your father on a ventilator, and I am really battling to stabilize him. I think it’s best if you both came to the hospital, we will kit you up, and escort you in to the Covid ICU.  Come and see your father before the evening.”

My heart dropped into my stomach and I went ice cold.

No.  Wait.

Wait.

This isn’t happening? This cannot be happening. He was Ok, just a few days ago… what the fuck is even going on right now??

Wait.

We drove to the hospital.  Quiet.

We walked in. My legs felt like cement, each step was hard, and I felt like there was a rope tied to my back.  Legs moving forward but something trying to pull me back out again.

It was dead quiet in there. Only staff. I guess that’s reality right now. No one allowed anywhere near there. We were screened and then escorted into a small room.  I remember walking past a guy on our way and thinking - oh he must be the guy who’s been transferring all my calls – he looked at us and did sort of a respectful, nod?

Stop looking at us like that.

We were met by the Sister who was looking after my father in ICU, she slowly talked us through getting dressed.

 The gown, the gloves, the mask, the hair net, the booties.  I watched myself get dressed from above.

She stopped and then gave us the calm explanation. The “this is what you’re about to see, don’t collapse” talk.

“There are a lot of machines. He is on a ventilator.  He is currently just staring.”

Just staring.

Wait.

I remember thinking that what she meant by just staring was that he was somehow, you know, just staring ahead, but blinking. You know, trying to calm himself because of the tube in his throat. Not all people get fully sedated.

She walked us in, and again, my feet like cement. The closer we got the more my knees wanted to buckle, until we were there. On either side of him.

I felt like I died a little inside.

He was not blinking. His eyes were fully open staring straight up at the ceiling. I remember thinking, why doesn’t he close his eyes, they’re going to be so dry.

He could not.

And his chest, was pumping up and down in a rhythmic but alarming way.  A machine, the only thing keeping the man who used to take me fishing as a kid, alive.

We both started to cry. Hard.

 I remember rubbing his chest, we could feel his warmth but not his skin because of the gloves.  One of Tracy’s biggest hurts now. That she couldn’t feel his skin.

My sister was crying “I’m sorry this happened to you.  I love you so much.  Please don’t go, I want to steal potatoes off your plate at Christmas!”

“Come on dad, fight this. You cannot let a virus named after a LIGHT BEER do this to you” (He’d have been mortified!)

I just cried.

I breathed in what he smelt like. I rubbed his hair softly and hoped he could feel it. I desperately wanted him to feel something nice. He’d been sick for a short while, it had happened so fast but everything had felt so bad to him I hoped he felt me rubbing his hair gently.

We told him we loved him, what felt like a hundred times.  The word “forgive” pinged around on my tongue but I chose not to say it. If he remembered me saying that to him when he came out of hospital, there was going to be a TALK!

The nurse came to us and asked us to calm down a little, that we were making his breathing erratic.

That must mean he could hear us right? Right?

Wait.

We cried harder but…softer. Told him we loved him some more. And then she came and told us we had to go now, that she needed to “settle him for the night.”

Settle him for the night, that was good news though right?

But I could hear all the alarms going off around my dad constantly.

We got 15 minutes.

We said goodbye.  We’ll see you in a few days dad. We love you.

His stomach did a violent jerk!  We looked at each other.  Did you see that?? Does he not want us to go?

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait. Please.

We had to go.

She walked us out, and as we went, we walked past beds. Beds full of other really sick people.  Another nurse came out of behind her person, her sick person, to come and respectfully nod at us, to make eye contact with us.

Stop looking at us like that.

STOP LOOKING AT US LIKE THAT.

I remember wanting to turn around and grab the nurse by her shoulders and aggressively shake her. “You make sure my father comes home for Christmas!!” But I just walked away.  I couldn’t do that to another person.

…and I could hear the alarms.

We sat around a fire. We’d taken calming tablets. I was drinking wine, a lot of wine. I wanted to blot out the world. Make it stop. Make it. Wait.

I looked at Tracy and told her that this was happening. This was going to happen.

His blood pressure was low. They were still battling to stabilize him.

I remember Dale coming down, sitting next to me and giving us both a stern talking to! “Stop mourning your father! He’s still here fighting!”

Okay. I tried to believe him. I couldn’t. Nothing good happens to me.

We just needed the phone to not ring.

The phone rang. We both stared at it like it was a snake.

The 3rd phone call:

‘Your fathers heart stopped. We could not get it going again. He fought so hard all the way to the end.”

Wait.

I remember my sister just starting to scream. I think I screamed too.  Did I? Or did I just fold in on myself.  I don’t know.

Wait. No.

We held onto each other, hysterical.

Someone call my brother…

I walked around in a small circle for what felt like hours, it was probably only a short while, just sobbing and repeating No, and uh uh.  My brain just refused to grasp it.  I felt like I’d gone crazy.

I remember Dale putting something under my tongue. Holding me by the shoulders trying to make eye contact. I didn’t want to. Because if I did, it was happening.

You said Dale… you said he’d be ok.  (I’m sorry Dale, you didn’t deserve that sentence)

Pain, the worst most horrific heart break.

A pain that has since not eased. Not even a little bit.

Denial, then pain. Then the bliss denial gives you, then the pain.

The guilt of days later, smacking a balloon around with your daughter and laughing a little. When the little voice in your head immediately shouts “Oh look at you, laughing it up. Are we over your fathers’ DEATH now???”

…then pain.

…and now, back to it. Business as usual?  Scrolling through work emails, trying to pretend that any of this matters anymore. That my world hasn’t just collapsed.

Wait.