Aneurysm

Aneurysm

I said 'Goodbye' to my dad today,
I know it's the last time I'll see him alive.
He lies on his side, his brain bloodied and useless,
his body shudders with every stertorous breath.
From a headache to this in less than twenty-four hours.

My mother doesn't recognise him as we walk towards the bed,
she loses her way from one end of the ward to the other.
No, that's not him she tells me.
Her grief is blinding her.
You don't deserve this, my love, she tells him.

He's had a full life but he could have had more.
Who decided that this is his quota?
He's only sixty-eight.
He had a heart problem,
but it's an aneurysm that's killing him.

I've got used to the smell,
it's as physical as a concrete wall when we first enter the ward.
It must permeate the beds and curtains and clothes,
but the nurses don't seem to notice.
Can their partners smell it on them when they get home?

Mum and I check on him every half-hour,
the walk from the waiting room to his bed as painful as walking on
glass.
My sister can't bear to see him like this,
his eyes, half-open, sweep left and right.
I wonder if his damaged brain allows him a dream.

There's nothing anyone can do,
it's just a case of waiting, a matter of time.
His brain will eventually decide that enough is enough,
but some people hang on to the edge of life for days.
A fingernail grip on a crumbling cliff.

We drag mum away for a few hours release.
She really wants to stay, to be holding his hand when he dies.
She doesn't want him to be alone at the end.
He stops breathing before we've left the car park.
I hope she can forgives us.