My Dad Was Nearly James Bond

by Des Bishop

  I left New York two days ago, delighted with how he was feeling. Two days ago he was worried about giving up chemotherapy too early, and now he is screaming to die. I could not have imagined until this moment how unpredictable all this would be. I could not have imagined how horrible it would be. Perhaps he has been hiding certain amounts of pain from us recently, but this came on so heavy.

  The poor guy. He is such a nice person and never harmed anyone in his entire lifetime. It seems so cruel that he should have to fight through all this pain at the end. We are made very badly, us humans. Why can’t we just go when there is no point in living? I feel defeated, and the fight has only just begun.

  I did not want to feel sorry for my dad. I don’t know why I did not see that in the script. I just wanted to feel sad that I was going to lose him. I was enjoying appreciating what a great guy he was. The urgency had brought strange gifts. This is theft. This is ridiculous.

  JOURNAL, WEDNESDAY, 26 JANUARY 2011, 12.35 P.M., CORK CITY

  There are two main things that I want to write about. The first thing happened on Sunday, but I deliberately waited until now to write about it because it was such a powerful conversation with my dad that I did not want to try to make sense of it straight away but rather just let it be what it was. It is harder to remember now exactly what was said, but I could never have imagined that I would end up having a conversation like it with him.

  The days before Sunday were horrible for my dad. After the pain, he was defeated. All he thinks about now is dying. He told me that if the pain continued, he would ask them to pull the plug. I think he kind of knew that it was not possible but, just in case, I reminded him that it was illegal. I did wonder, though, why a man who had lived a good life and had nothing left to live for but pain and reliance on others could not make the final call. I can understand if there is a chance of many more years, but all he wants to do is leave work a little early. He is not looking for a day off.

  When I talked to him on Sunday he was finally comfortable and had been checked. His vital signs were all good and, to his disappointment, he was not on the way out the following day. The nurse had made clear to him that the pain he was feeling was from the cancer in his bones and that would not be the thing to kill him quickly. By the time I was talking to him he had been spending a lot of time thinking about dying.

  I am not sure what the initial subject was, but I know that it came around to him telling me he had bad thoughts running around in his head. I was not sure what he meant, so I asked him to try to explain in some way. He told me that he was worried about the things he did in his life. I asked him if there was anything he felt guilty about. He said yes but did not offer any information. I was cool with not knowing whether I was the guy he wanted to tell or not. He had mentioned to me when I was home that a priest called Father Jim, who was also a member of AA, was due to call around to hear his confession, so I told him that if he was burdened by things he should tell Father Jim.

  I asked him what kind of stuff he was worried about. He mentioned things he had done when he was drinking. Knowing the programme of AA, I thought he had shared all of that stuff and had let it go. The more we talked, though, the more it became clear that it was less about what he had done and more about a deep belief that he was not a good person.

  I can’t remember the way he articulated all these thoughts. I just know that he told me that somewhere in him he felt like a bad person. He said he could not really put his finger on the feeling, but it was there. There was so much about this conversation that was familiar to me. I had had the same chats with counsellors and therapists over the years. I felt like I was listening to myself. I was definitely my father’s son. So I said to him what was said to me, that it was shame he was feeling. I told him that it was a belief system he had programmed in him that he never escaped from.

  He asked me why. I really did not want to be his therapist, I just wanted him to have relief. I can’t remember the exact order of the things that were said, but I know I originally said that where it came from was not that important at this stage. What mattered was that he had the right to admit to himself that he was a good person. I then told him that, considering what he had achieved after the abuse he had received as a child and the love that he had shown his family, he was, in fact, a great person. I think I told him that he was one of the greatest people that ever lived.

  He said that it was a good point. He said that it would be possible to look at it that way. So I said it didn’t matter what his mother had done to him or anything else that was eating away at him; all he had to do was give himself a break and admit that he was a good person. I then told him that he could even say it right now on the phone. He said that he could not do that. He then said something to the effect of him not deserving it or believing it.

  I am not sure if I got angry, but I know I got passionate. I said that it was up to him. He had the power to liberate himself because it was only what he felt now that mattered. I pleaded with him to give himself a break just this once and allow himself to say he was a good person. I told him that everyone he knew worshipped him. I told him that my whole life everyone always told me how amazing my dad was. People always raved about how our dad was the nicest man. Everyone he was ever involved with thought he was a great man, except for him. So I pleaded that now, at the end, the most important thing was that he left this world with the certainty that he knew he was a good man. As part of the evidence to back up my case, somewhere in the conversation I told him that I could not love him more.

  I was not just trying to get him to say this as a surface exercise. I could feel him on the cliff edge of a major admission. I knew that this was part of who he was. I knew that he carried this negative view of himself around, and I knew it motivated much of his behaviour. I recognized that I had been at similar points when I’d fought to say a simple sentence because I knew it had power in the moment. I wanted him to begin the process of freedom from that prison.

  I am not good enough! Such a simple sentence. How could so much of what hurts us be that simple?

  He told me he was a good person.

  ‘Damn fucking right you are!’ I said.

  I admitted to him after that that I pretty much just copied what a therapist had done with me around the same beliefs. I would not belittle what I have been through in my life. In fact, it’s no surprise I ended up with the same doubts about my worth on the planet as my father. But whatever I had to deal with in a therapist’s office is nothing compared to the trauma that my dad experienced. I told him that he had to remind himself every day from here on in that he was a great person and that he was good enough. I told him he was not allowed to leave this life with any doubts about that.

  I felt so lucky in a way to have a dad who could talk so openly about things. It made his imminent death seem like such an opportunity for us. We cannot be any closer now.

  40

  The week of shows in Cork as my father lay dying was very powerful. Essentially I was performing every night, hoping he was not going to go too fast. One thing I wanted to do while I was in Cork was to go down to Ballycotton to film footage of places my dad might like as his final resting place. He had told me many times, and he said it in an interview on the documentary, that he wanted his ashes spread in Ballycotton.

  He said, ‘There is a field next to the cliffs up there in Ballycotton, you could see right out on to the lighthouse. I used to go mushrooming there when I was a lad. I am sure there are all houses there now.’ As I mentioned, we had discussed the spot in greater detail in more recent times, but I wanted to have something to show him when I got back to New York. I had always thought my dad’s memory would not be right about where he was thinking, but after the documentary was shown I got tons of emails talking about the exact spot he was talking about. Every one said the same place.

  Pat Kiernan, a theatre director from Cork whom I very much admire, had come to see the show one of the nights aft
er the documentary had been broadcast. Once again he knew exactly where I was talking about, and he had his own story about a time when he had been exploring the cliff walk in Ballycotton himself. He told me there was a set of steps down the cliff towards the sea, about half a mile from the town. If I took the steps all the way down I would find a little swimming hole. He said when he had found it he thought it was quite an amazing place, and when he met one of the locals they told him that traditionally it was known as ‘the paradise’. He was adamant that I go there. Before even seeing it I was convinced that this was the spot in my dad’s head. I also thought that there was something intense about the conversation with Pat; I felt that maybe we were meant to have this conversation. I also felt right that the show should finish in Cork, close to where my father always thought was paradise.

  So I went to the paradise with my best friend, Ian. We walked along the cliff walk, and it was just as my dad had described it, with the lighthouse in the distance. There is something remarkable about the cliff walk because all you can see is the vast ocean and the cliffs beyond heading west. It is not like most of the East Cork coastline, which is tamer. It has a strength and power that is more like West Cork.

  As we walked down the steps, I could hear the ocean hammering against the rocks. It felt wild and rocky and dangerous. But when I got to the bottom it had a tiny protected pool of deep water, and just beyond a few rocks was the ocean spraying high and white, showering the pool. This was indeed a paradise; there is nothing I like more than to be as close as possible to the untamed sea. It humbles me.

  It was a perfect place. I filmed the spot, saying a few words to my dad about how we might set him off on his final journey. I told him I would dive in after him and have one final swim in the ocean together, as we had done in Westhampton and at the Forty Foot in Sandycove, Dublin, a few Christmases before. I liked the thought of one final swim together in Cork. One final swim together in Ireland, a place to which we both escaped and where we both found peace. I liked the paradise because it was not protected enough to be stagnant in any way. You could see the water being sucked out and thrust back in with the ebb and flow of the tide. I knew that I could step back out and continue the journey and he would not be stuck there in the pool; he would get sucked straight out into the vast expanse of the sea.

  (I have yet to go down those steps with my brothers and my mother. We have not found the right time yet. I don’t even think I want to yet. It’s nice to think that there is one more thing to look forward to when the show is over. There is still one final day to say goodbye.)

  41

  JOURNAL, FRIDAY, 28 JANUARY 2011, 1.30 A.M. BACK IN THE HOTEL IN CORK CITY

  Just got off the phone after my mother rang me today and I could tell she was upset. She began the conversation by saying in a strained tone, ‘Not a good day today.’ I asked her what had happened, assuming it was more problems with constipation or nausea or pain. There was silence on the phone. The pause lasted for quite a few seconds. She did not have to say anything after that; the pause spoke volumes. I knew it was the calm before the storm. I knew the rest of what my mother would say would come with tears.

  ‘The hospice nurse came today and she says that seeing how much he has declined since last week, that he only has two to four weeks, maybe even less.’ She completely broke down then and just handed the phone to the nurse. My mother hates having to talk about the bad news. I felt worse for my mother than I did for my dad. Sympathy aside though, I would have preferred not to talk to the nurse right then and there without warning as I was a tad emotional, but I had no choice as seconds later she was on the phone.

  It’s hard to talk on the phone to someone you don’t know about how long your father has to live. She introduced herself as the hospice nurse and then said, ‘Do you have any questions?’ I actually did not have any questions because I was in shock. So I just told her what I was actually feeling. I said, ‘Actually, my mother just told me you said my dad only has a short time and handed the phone to you as she was crying.’

  She told me that my mother was concerned that I would not have enough time to get back, seeing as I was abroad. She then gave me the details of why she thought his time was short. I felt compelled to tell her that this was tough for my mother, as she has never truly accepted that this day was coming and that was probably why she handed her the phone in such haste. I don’t know why I told her this, but I guess I was just trying to let her know why I was unprepared for the conversation. That is definitely a bit of my dad in me, that I was concerned about what this woman would think about the little drama that preceded her talking to me.

  She told me that my dad would be getting methadone which, though more closely associated with heroin maintenance, was a very good pain reliever in this situation. I asked her when he would be going on the morphine drip, and she told me that would not happen as he was staying at home. She was nice and informative, and that was it. I asked to be put back on to my mother.

  I should have asked my mother to take a picture of that woman. When I got off the phone I wondered where she was from. I did not know if she was white or black or Asian. It does not really matter, but it seems like a weird thing to talk to someone on the phone about such important information and not have a clue who they are. It’s fine when you are complaining about your phone bill, but it just seems a bit cold when you are talking about how long your father has to live. It’s a perfect example of how being far away is a horrible thing as the time gets closer.

  My mother got back on the phone and she was still crying. I think she did one of her very open diaphragm ‘Oh God, Des!’ exclamations. It’s such a distinct way that my mother has of doing it. Sometimes it’s followed by, ‘What are we going to do?’ but I don’t think she said that. Then she asked me, ‘Are you OK?’ and honestly I was OK at that moment. I told her that it was good news because all Dad talked about now was wanting to die. She then said that if I was OK then she would be fine. She had been so worried about me being far away and hearing the news. I could hear the relief in her voice.

  She told me she just wanted three weeks. She felt she needed that time to get her head around it. I told her that I would be fine if he died tomorrow because that’s what he wants. I tried to reassure her that if he died tomorrow and I was in Ireland, that I would be content because I had said everything I wanted to say and that I could not love the man any more than I did right at that moment. Coincidentally, I could not have loved my mother more than at that moment either. Maybe it’s silly, because I know my mother worries about me all the time, but not in the way she was worried about me then. She wasn’t worried about me being in trouble or being stressed; she was worried about how I felt. She was being very loving, and I could feel it. I was really loving her too, and not out of obligation.

  JOURNAL, SATURDAY EVENING, 29 JANUARY 2011

  Later this evening I was backstage at the Cork Opera House for about twenty minutes before the opening act (who was standing in for Aidan) was due to go on. I told my mother my plan to come home for a few days to make sure that I could see my dad before he lost consciousness, and then I’d decide what to do. She was delighted that I was coming home, but hated me having to cancel shows. My mother’s fear of death is only outweighed by her fear that my career will implode any day.

  We chatted for a while, but only one thing really mattered. She told me that she did not see how he had such a short time because his breathing was so good. She had been up all last night, listening to his breathing. For ages she just listened to it. Then he started snoring and she told me that for most of their lives together she hated him snoring, but she thought last night that it was the loveliest sound and she wished she could hear it forever. It was a sad but lovely thought. Just her desire to be with him was so lovely. I am going to miss him too, no doubt, but I will always remember how I realized how much my parents loved each other by hearing their openness in these last few weeks.

  I am luc
ky really because we are genuinely open at the moment. I know perhaps this is not the norm, but I am loving it. My mother told me that my father always denied he snored and she never woke him up, no matter how bad the noise, yet any time she snored he would wake her up straight away. ‘Eileen, you are snoring!’ I laughed, particularly at the way she told the story. I laughed also because she does not realize that she snores every night.

  JOURNAL, WEDNESDAY, 2 FEBRUARY 2011, 4 A.M. FLUSHING, QUEENS, NEW YORK

  I made it back after some serious drama trying to get here. My flight had been cancelled as JFK was closed. I was in a major panic because Aidan had told me the night before that my father was close to death and that I should try to get escorted through immigration if I could, just in case it was coming down to hours. I actually got mad at him because you do immigration in Dublin so it would not have made a difference and it just panicked me beyond belief. So when the flight got cancelled I was freaking out. In the end I just got a flight to Philadelphia and drove to New York. It was pretty exciting in the end, running around the airport. I will always remember that Metallica’s ‘Nothing Else Matters’ was in my head the whole time I was running around because I had decided that nothing else mattered other than getting home.

  I made it and I was finally back with my dad. I walked into the room and I could see how far he had declined in the last two and a half weeks. He opened his eyes and the first thing he said was, ‘Des.’ He knew me straight away and that was all that mattered. I was glad he knew I was there. I knew he had lost the ability to communicate properly, but he was so quick in seeing me that I knew it had registered that his whole family were home to be with him.