from a series of errors
some well-meaning, others boomeranged off crazy hatreds
some the lesser of two or three or seventeen evils
many stupid, some cruel, all short-sighted
I blame myself, a little
thirty years ago I asked a friend to find him a wife
my mother dead, he was wasting, perishing
she did--I forgot to specify, to say,
"Please Sandy, find him someone kind."
It never occurred to me she wouldn't choose someone kind.
So, that first error,
or was it the first?
No, he could have chosen well
from women who were kind and loving and even beautiful
women loved him
his error, born of rage, sorrow, spite
to choose someone, he used to tell me, as unlike my mother as he could find.
my mother, once elegant, witty, despairing and kind
I used to think he couldn't bear to be reminded of her
her beauty, her depths, her pain and sensitivity
that it hurt too much
later I believed it a sort of revenge
whispering to her ghost, "look at me, how I've wrecked my life
because of you, who left me.
It's all your fault"
there wasn't a name then for complicated grief
Fast forward thirty years
his mistake, refusing to enjoy life, to engage, to chase a fascination
to feel passionate about anything
and my mistake, misplaced respect, I didn't shout at him, insist he re-enter life,
browbeat him if necessary, heckle, tease, confront, prod, disturb
he married someone who found sufficient virtue in daily ironing
who hated children and cats and dogs and unwed mothers and gay people
and people of all colours, and the non-English and most of all
his children, hs child, so like his dead wife
fast forward to the days when he stopped shopping and she stopped buying fresh foods
two old people living on carbohydrates and boredom
until his doctor diagnosed anorexia
and when his balance went and he resisted the balance clinic
this was not my error--I begged him for two years before he finally went
let's see, what was the next mistake, that helped kill my father?
The stubbornness that had them keep surgery secret from their friends
that lied to me, calling it a biopsy--it was not
the surgeon's error was next--sending home an old man, catheterised
in the sole care of an old woman, none too bright
who couldn't read the thermometer, couldn't hear him call
who handed him the blood thinner which he should not have taken
who kept quiet when he woke in the night babbling
who waited 8 hours to get help
while his brain bled into his brain
that was another of her mistakes
calling an ambulance
but unable to describe the symptoms
and their mistake--they didn't intuit a stroke, so said
the ambulance wouldn't come for three hours
and her mistake--she cancelled the ambulance
and waited 8 hours to get help
while his brain bled
and her mistake--they're all her mistakes now--
approving a tube into his stomach
he'd always said he wanted no interference
she ignored his wish, and he technically
lived 7 more months, technically, on tube feeding
she did nothing when the physio gave up on him
didn't consider a rehab hospital
which insurance would have covered
stuck him in a nursing home a mile from her house
fed him custard--custard! when he choked on water
did not arrange for private therapies
though the money was there
but bought a double room in the nursing home
keeping him away from the others
keeping him alone
and the nursing home--their mistakes too many to list
the greatest the mere fact of a nursing home
refused him water, saying it was "cruel"
cruel to the staff when he choked--they didn't want to kill him
this man who was dying of thirst
what can you say to a nurse who tells you
that in her 40 year career,
a patient has never recovered from this sort of stroke?
Her mistake--staying a nurse
and another explained
swallowing therapy was useless now that he was in palliative care
but soothing his parched tongue with a spritz of water
"Might choke him--that could be FATAL!"
eyes wide, as if death were unthinkable in this human storage facility
she didn't see the irony
I said, "he's dying--can't he at least be comfortable?"
i'd said something horrible--my mistake
They don't say "dying" in that nursing home, or "death" either
they don't open the windows or spray a freshener when they change a diaper either
they just leave the patient in the miasma, back in an hour to check the QR code on the wall
They say, "we're keeping him comfortable"
a brutal lie
their mistake--thinking I'd believe it
I bought a tiny bottle and misted his mouth like an orchid
and saw him relieved, greedy as a little bird for more
no one else would do it
it was all he wanted, by then
Finally, after 6 months of thirst
the poor man, the finally lucky man, died
at 7:15 (they said) on a Thursday, in the evening, they said
The next day when i rang to book my Saturday visit
The staff swore to the manager they'd left me a message
their mistake--they had not
she felt terrible, spluttered and made excuses
wanted to tell me the details of his "arrangements"
I said, "he never wanted a viewing--he always said that"
she lapsed into silence
it didn't matter--he wasn't going to be less dead
Tears were not possible--only relief and blessing Death
I've never been more grateful
so glad for him, his escape at last
it could have gone on for years, that horror
I thought the errors ended, and the important ones did
his wife had him laid out in a funeral home
again, against his wishes
dead, perhaps he no longer really minded
what they did with the wasteland of bones and flesh
my sister and she curated a drama of bereavement
they didn't tell me (knowing what I'd say)
then told the others "She didn't even come to the funeral home"
the others told me, my friends told me, my dear spies who love me
and we laughed at the silly malice of it all
Two days before he died, I sat with him and held his hand
he could not speak--had lost his speech
he could write a word, then scribbles
he kept trying, I tried to understand
visits exhausted us, we kept trying to talk to each other
I was glad to sit while he slept, it was easy then
the last visit, he managed to write enough that I could guess,
"better write Stephen"
Stephen, his stock broker and friend
I emailed Stephen on the spot, read the email to my dad
he tried to smile, tried to nod--the smile, the nod, just green eyes blinking
I didn't say, "Dad, are you planning to die soon?"
My mistake-I could have told him once again that i loved him
He liked hearing my bank account was healthy and I still had a job
there was so little I could do
I could hold his hand, he stroked mine and stared at it
he seemed wondering
Did it resemble my mother's hand?
Did he love me because of it?
sometimes I sang to him
"because you're mine, I walk the line."
The night he died, I had walked away from work
thinking what a fine, early summer evening
an ancient garden, a stone seat
a dream I'd had to capture in words
a long poem that became a haiku
a dream of love that woke me weeping
for its loss on waking
While I was writing, he was leaving
this world ignored so long
of wystaria and old stone walls and mist
and passionate dreams, of wishes and birdsong
I hope he saw me
on the stone bench, writing of love
turning words and syllables like uneven stones
in a path to nowhere
I hope he kissed my cheek
as my mother drew him away
to worlds of roses and Martinis and sweet forgiveness
I wasn't there when he died
but it was no mistake
the day my father finally went free
to sit on a stone bench,
in silent garden
thinking only of love