It had been a treacherous six weeks. I reached down to the floor that morning to check the time on my phone. Four missed calls – not a number I had saved, but the hospital. They had been calling for hours.
The boys were up and around, so I listened to the messages in my room while dressing and trying to quell my rising stress.
Dazed and in a small bubble, I managed to hustle the boys out the door, claiming an emergency at work.
When I reached the private room, his eldest brother sat beside him in a screamingly white T-shirt. The room was dark, and the patient barely registered our presence. A hug from his brother, gentle tones exchanged – the noise of the machines and the darkness were unbearably suffocating.
I randomly paid two bills I’d been carrying around in my bag – a way to disconnect from the scene.
Soon after, Mum arrived, and my sister and offered to grab more coffees. The noise, or lack of it, drove me to play music from my phone. I placed it near E’s head, hoping he could hear. A nurse dropped in now and then, gently saying he wouldn’t be here much longer.
My whole being was screaming: PLEASE DO NOT DIE BECAUSE I CANNOT POSSIBLY TELL THE BOYS.
But out loud, I said gently that he was safe to go, that we were all there, that the boys were loved. I said it calmly, as if rehearsed, while his brother and my mum cried their eyes out.
He then passed. And I shut the music off. My sister poked her head around the door, armed with caffeine and goodies, and immediately clocked the silence, the red eyes, and me shaking my head.
The hour or so afterwards was a blur of side rooms, phone calls, texts, and my mum eating a lemon muffin. We took his two bags from the room and his beloved back scratcher.
We ended up at E’s flat to drop off his brother, who was tired and said he’d probably just go for a drink later. I took stock of the stuff, the kids’ stuff, all the stuff.
Mum and I drove to the beach, and I went into the sea up to my ankles. Mum said something like, “New chapters opening up, fresh start – won’t be so different for the boys… and at least you can raise them the way you want now.”
Mum went home with my sister and brother-in-law.
I’d decided to wait until we got home to tell them, so I had to fake calm for all seven miles.
They asked about my ‘emergency at work’ that morning. I quietly skimmed over it. I still hadn’t figured out how to break the news and was somewhat regretting doing it alone.
When we got home, we discovered my generous brother-in-law had stocked our fridge and cupboards with an enormous grocery shop.
I said something like, “You know how we rushed out this morning for my emergency at work? Well, it wasn’t work. It was your dad, and I don’t know how to say this really, because I don’t want to, but unfortunately, he died today.”
My eldest Fergus rose, raging, legs visibly shaking, calling out the doctors for being “fucking useless,” kicking out. I stood, trying to grab him and hold him, hands on both legs to stop the trembling, saying over and over, “It’s awful, it’s horrific, love, I wish it wasn’t true.”
Digby, on the couch: “How can I live without a dad? Can you just marry Darren, please, now!? Why did you have to tell me, Mum? You could have just said he was in hospital!”
And Theo, just newly six, sat silent, taking in his brothers’ responses. He looked straight into my eyes, trying not to cry, and asked, “Is this the kind of thing I’ll grow up and not remember?”
I said, “You might forget this feeling, but you probably won’t forget this day and definitely not your dad.”
I knelt on the floor, passing from one to the other, as calm as possible, explaining gently just a little about how he died, that he wasn’t in pain, and that he loved them.
The hours after Fergus went to his room; the rest of us went to the kitchen to look at the new food, the tv was switched on, I made calls and hung out washing.
In the middle of a call, Theo came out to the garden and asked if we’d have to Airbnb his dad’s flat.
“No, son,” I said gently. “He rented it.”
Article by Samantha Kirk
s.e.h.kirk@gmail.com
