by Dani Atkins
‘No, Jake. He isn’t.’
You say goodbye to the people you love thousands of times in a lifetime: every time they walk out of the front door; every time you hang up the phone; every waved farewell. You just never know which of those goodbyes is going to be the last one. You aren’t supposed to know. Except that we did.
‘Tonight?’ Kaye’s voice was a hushed whisper. ‘They’re going to do it tonight?’
My arms went around her, and I could feel the tremors running through her insubstantial frame. ‘I think they have to . . . if he’s going to help as many people as possible.’ That was the only way I could think about it, not what was being taken from us, but what Joe was giving to others.
The remaining hours of the day passed by in a horrible state of limbo. I guess somewhere donors were being sourced, families who had given up hope were receiving a phone call, a summons to a hospital somewhere that would change their future. Our own had already changed beyond all recognition.
Late in the afternoon, Frank had subtly motioned for me to step outside of the hospital room, so we could talk. I disentangled my fingers from Joe’s with aching reluctance. Every moment spent away from his side was a moment lost, a moment never to be regained.
My father-in-law seemed to have aged at least another decade over the course of the day. His skin was greyer, his eyes more washed out, even his voice seemed diminished. ‘Kaye and I have discussed it . . . and I don’t think we can stay here until . . . until the very end. I don’t think his mum’s strong enough to get through that.’
I reached for Frank’s hands and squeezed them gently. His skin felt hot and dry, the concertina of wrinkles on them crumpled, like thin sheets of tissue paper. I was worried by how vulnerable he suddenly seemed. It wasn’t just Kaye who would buckle if they stayed. They both would.
‘I understand, Frank. Really I do. You stay only as long as you can, and when it’s all too much, then you and Kaye should just go. Joe wouldn’t want you suffering like this.’
Joe’s parents said their final goodbyes to their son in private. My mum and dad had taken Jake down to the canteen to buy him something that I was pretty certain he wouldn’t eat, and Max and I went to wait in the Relatives’ Room. Thankfully it was empty, which was just as well, as my appetite for meeting Charlotte right then was probably on a par with my son’s for chicken nuggets and pizza.
‘Do you think they’ll be alright, Joe’s parents?’ asked Max, holding my hand tightly in his own.
I shook my head sadly. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ My eyes filled as I imagined Kaye, leaning over the hospital bed to kiss her son goodbye for the very last time. Something sharper than a knife gouged into my heart as I realised that before the evening was through, I would do the same thing.
‘The car’s downstairs waiting for them. It’ll take them back home, or wherever they want to go, whenever they’re ready.’
‘Thanks Max.’ I squeezed his fingers a little more tightly. ‘I don’t know how I’d have got through today without you.’
His smile was gentle. He raised a hand and brushed a straying lock of hair back from my eyes. ‘You’re strong, Ally. Stronger than you know. You’ll get through this, and you’ll help Jake get through this. And when you stumble, when it all gets too hard, we’ll be right behind you, to pick you up and put you on your feet again.’
I rested my head wearily on his shoulder, knowing that despite his assurances, the journey to this new and unasked-for life was one I’d have to travel alone. A discreet knock on the door made me look up. The Specialist Nurse from the Organ Donation team came through the opening, with a look of apology for disturbing us on her face. But what she had come to say disturbed me even more.
‘I just wanted to let you know that the theatre has been booked for nine p.m. this evening.’
It was impossible not to immediately glance at the clock and do the awful mental arithmetic. Joe had less than two hours left.
Kaye and Frank made a quiet exit from the ward, and I was glad they’d already left by the time my mum walked out of the lift carriage with her arm around Jake’s shoulders. It would only have scared him to see the adults he relied on, the bedrock people in his world, so lost and broken. Children aren’t supposed to see the people they love flailing helplessly in a sea of grief. The need to be strong for our son was the only thing that was still holding me up.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I asked, scanning the empty lift cubicle behind them.
My mum glanced down at Jake for a moment before replying. ‘He’s just popped out for a little while. There was something he had to get.’
I didn’t even question how odd that was, because my mind was elsewhere. Very slowly I crouched down and placed my hands on Jake’s narrow shoulders.
‘Grandma Kaye and Grandpa Frank have gone home now, Jake. They said goodbye to Daddy, and I think it’s time now for you to do that too.’ From my position at floor level I glanced up at my mum. ‘Then Grandma and Granddad can take you back home.’
‘No.’ I wasn’t expecting such a determined refusal from my young son. But on this thing, there would be no negotiation; I wasn’t going to give in. The trauma of having to witness Joe being wheeled away to the operating theatre would live on as a nightmare memory for me, but not for him. I would do anything to spare him that.
‘Jake, I know how hard this is for you. I know how much this is hurting you, because it’s hurting me too. But you’re going to have to be the best and bravest boy in the world and just do what Daddy and I want, okay?’ His eyes lifted to mine at the deliberate inclusion of Joe in my request. I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Daddy wouldn’t want you to stay here all night. You know how sad it makes him when you get upset. Please, Jakey,’ I pleaded.
Jake nodded slowly. His brilliant blue eyes, a legacy from his natural father, were brimming with tears for the man who had done such a wonderful job of filling that role for all of his young life.
‘I know I have to tell Daddy goodbye tonight, Grandma explained it all to me. I get it Mummy, I do.’ I shot a look of pure gratitude at my mum. ‘But not yet. Not until Granddad gets back.’
I rose to my feet, and took Jake’s hand in mine. Perhaps he needed the strength of all of us to help him. I couldn’t strip that away from him, not when he was already about to lose so much more. ‘Okay then. We can wait a little while.’
Twenty minutes later my father came through the door of Joe’s room. His hair and heavy winter coat were speckled with dissolving flakes of snow, and he was slightly out of breath. In his hand he clasped a small bright red carrier bag from a well-known department store. Jake twisted off my lap and ran towards him.
‘Did you find it?’
My dad ruffled his dark hair in a loving gesture and passed him the bag. ‘I did, Jake. Although I had to go to three different stores, mind you. Thank goodness they’re all open late for Christmas shopping.’
‘Thank you, Granddad,’ said Jake quietly, his hand already delving into the carrier. I glanced over at Max and saw a look of puzzlement on his face that probably matched mine perfectly.
‘What have you got there?’ My lips parted slightly in surprise as Jake carefully extracted the purchase from the bag. I didn’t need to read the title of the book in his hands. I recognised it from its brightly illustrated cover, and from the many times I’d seen it held within Joe’s large strong hands. The last time I’d seen this book – or an older, more dog-eared edition of it – had been yesterday morning. It had been sitting on Jake’s bedside table, waiting to be picked up again for the much-loved ritual of the bedtime story. Although we both took turns as narrator, this particular book – Jake’s all-time favourite – was only allowed to be read by Joe.
Jake approached the bed with the book tucked under his arm. ‘We have one chapter still to go,’ he declared solemnly. I think I was the only person close enough to see the slight wobble of his chin as he spoke. ‘And I didn’t want Daddy to . . . go anywhere . . . without hearing the end o
f the story.’
I looked across at the other adults in the room with desperate sadness. How do you explain this to a child? I thought we had done so, I thought he understood, but clearly not.
‘Jake,’ I said gently, ‘Daddy won’t be able to read you the story, honey. I know he would really want to, if he could. It’s just that he can’t . . . he can’t wake up.’
Jake held the book tightly against his small chest, as though it were a breastplate, shielding him from harm. ‘I know that, Mummy. I understand. That’s why I’m going to read it to him. Just this one time. It will help him sleep better.’
I couldn’t speak, it was all I could do to keep from sobbing out loud as Jake once again hauled himself up onto his father’s hospital bed. He shuffled his slight body into position and slid one small childish arm around Joe’s shoulder, mirroring the way Joe always pulled him against his body as he read to our son. The sound of someone quietly crying could just be heard above the sibilant hiss of the ventilator breathing air into Joe’s lungs. I looked up to see who it was, and saw that it was everyone. Even the two nurses who were standing discreetly to one side of the room had tears running down their cheeks.
‘Now, where were we?’ said Jake, copying the words he had heard a thousand times from us. He thumbed through the book until he reached the final unread chapter.
Jake was a bright little boy, he always had been, but the book was advanced even for someone who could read beyond their years. But on this night, the long and sometimes complex words didn’t stop him. Running his finger beneath the lines on the page, he read on, occasionally stumbling over a word, but determinedly sounding out the ones that were unfamiliar. I didn’t prompt him, even when he faltered, because I knew this was something that he had to do. I realised then, that many years into the future, when he himself was a grown man, Jake would always remember the night when he had read this story to his dying father.
Jake’s eyes, unlike ours, stayed dry the entire time that he read. It wasn’t until he had finally murmured ‘The End’ and slowly shut the book, that he began to cry. Very tenderly he leaned down and kissed Joe’s cheek, letting his small mouth linger there one last time.
‘I love you Daddy,’ he whispered into Joe’s ear. ‘Sleep well. Sweet dreams.’ He was repeating the words Joe said to him each night. I held my breath, waiting to see if he would complete them. ‘See you when the sun shines again,’ he said, his voice sounding lost, and for the first time, so much younger than his years. He slid off the bed and into my arms. ‘I’d like to go home now,’ he confessed into the wall of my chest.
My mum was already on her feet and collecting their coats. I kept Jake’s face against my body, unconsciously rocking him in my arms, as I hadn’t done for years, as my parents both kissed Joe goodbye. Then they each held out a hand and very gently I turned Jake towards them.
He walked to the door between his grandparents, his small head bowed. He raised it once and looked back, then suddenly broke free of their hands and ran back into the room. At first I didn’t realise what he was doing as he fell to his knees and scrabbled furiously beneath the hospital bed.
‘Jake? What are you doing? You can’t—’ I broke off as he emerged from beneath the metal-framed bed with his cherished bedtime cuddly toy in his hands. I’d completely forgotten how he had angrily discarded it earlier in the day. He brushed small specks of dirt from the lion’s face and looked deeply into the unseeing plastic eyes, then held out the toy to me.
‘Can Daddy take Simba? Will the doctors let him take it with him?’
‘Don’t you think you might miss Simba a little too much yourself?’
Jake slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘I’ve got you, and Grandma and Granddad and Uncle Max. But Daddy will be all alone. I want him to keep Simba, so he won’t be lonely.’
I took the toy from Jake’s outstretched hand only when I saw how important this sacrifice was to him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the doctors know,’ I promised.
I could have had a thousand years to say my goodbyes to Joe, and it still wouldn’t have been long enough. To give us privacy, Max had discreetly positioned himself in a chair at the far reaches of the room. That was as far away from my side as he was prepared to go. He was pretending to read a magazine; pretending not to keep glancing over at me, with worried concern all over his face. He might even have managed to fool me, if the magazine he was holding hadn’t been upside-down the entire time it was in his hands.
When I heard the click of her footsteps enter the room, I didn’t even need to turn around to know that the Specialist Nurse had joined us. ‘Mrs Taylor?’ Slowly I swivelled in my seat. She had an open and expressive face, and her words were redundant. I knew why she was there. ‘Mrs Taylor, Ally, I just wanted to let you know that the transplant team have now arrived. In a little while we’ll need to move Joe upstairs.’
Panic raced through me. I’d known this was coming, of course I had. But it was still too soon, decades too soon. My galloping heart beat faster, as though trying to build up enough momentum to race us both out of there, to somewhere where none of this could touch us. But that place didn’t exist.
‘Do you think I could—’ My voice was croaky as though the words were rusted within me. ‘Would it be possible for me to speak to the surgeon? The one who’s going to operate on Joe?’
The nurse’s eyebrows lifted marginally and the concern on her face was clear. ‘Is this something I could help you with? Perhaps I haven’t explained everything clearly enough?’
‘No,’ I assured her. ‘I understand everything that will happen. I just need to speak to him before he begins. Would that be alright?’
I had wondered if this request was unusual. I could see from her eyes that it was. Yet she hesitated for only a moment before nodding slowly.
‘Of course. Let me see what I can do.’
She was back in minutes. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Bertram can see you now.’ I got to my feet, and looked anxiously at Joe. ‘He’ll still be here when you get back,’ she reassured.
I remember nothing of the journey up to the floor which housed the operating theatres. I don’t remember walking along the empty corridor towards the tall man in green hospital scrubs, who stood patiently waiting beside a pair of swing doors.
He held out his hand to me as we approached. ‘Mrs Taylor, my name is Sydney Bertram and I will be Joe’s surgeon this evening. I understand that you wished to speak with me?’
I liked him instantly, which struck me as surprising, given the circumstances. I especially liked the way he referred to Joe by name. As though he was still a patient in need of his care.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I began. He waved away my gratitude with a casual waft of his hand. His fingers were long and elegant. Musician’s fingers, I thought abstractedly. Then I remembered the work those fingers would soon undertake, and began to cry.
‘Is there something you wanted to ask me, Mrs Taylor?’
I shook my head, and fought to regain control. What I had to say was too important to allow it to be lost in incoherent tears. ‘I wanted to tell you about Joe. About the kind of man he is. Before you begin tonight, I wanted you to know that he’s so much more than just a person who carried a donor card. I wanted you to know that he’s funny – really funny – we laugh all the time. And he’s kind and thoughtful, not just to his family – but to everyone. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t like him. He is a truly wonderful man, and he means the world to his parents, to his son, and . . . to me.’
Hospitals are busy places. Operating theatres are booked and surgeries are scheduled with detailed precision. I knew perfectly well that elsewhere within this building medical professionals were waiting to begin their work. Outside, in the dark and snowy night there were ambulances, maybe even helicopters, whose work tonight would only begin when this surgeon’s job was done. But no trace of impatience showed on his face as he stood before me, gently inclining his head and liste
ning as I tried to encapsulate in just minutes everything it had taken me eight years to learn and love about the man I was passing over to his care.
When at last I came to a halt, his eyes were kind and warm. ‘Mrs Taylor, your husband sounds like a man I would have been honoured to meet and to know. I give you my word, that while Joe is with us, my team and I will treat him with more than just respect, but also with admiration and gratitude. Joe was a brave man when he was alive, but what he’s doing now, what he’s leaving behind, is even more brave and courageous. As are you.’
I shook my head, but his words assured me that I had spoken for Joe as eloquently as I could. I had told them who he was. I reached into my handbag for a tissue, and felt the sharp edge of a plastic container jab my fingertips. The question came from my lips without thought. ‘In films I’ve seen that sometimes music is played during an operation. Is that something that you do?’
Mr Bertram inclined his head. ‘Indeed it is. I personally favour classical pieces, Debussy in particular.’
Slowly I withdrew the thin, flat object from my bag. I had last seen it thirty-six hours earlier, when I’d plucked it from the car’s CD player, and replaced it with something more to my liking. The cover glinted brightly under the fluorescent lighting: a guitar, a bale of hay and a discarded Stetson. ‘Would it be possible to play this when you are . . . when . . . during—?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said, taking the CD from my hands.
‘Track four is his favourite.’
‘I’ll make sure it’s playing.’
I held out my hand to the man who I knew I would never see again, and whose face I would never forget. ‘Thank you for listening to me.’
‘It is us who should thank you and your husband for what you’re both doing.’ His words were subtly drawing our meeting to a close. ‘I should go, unless there’s anything else you wished to say or ask, Mrs Taylor?’
