The Doors Are Permanently Locked

The doors are permanently locked now.  I ring the buzzer and we’re eventually allowed in by the security guard.  Stepping inside I’m hit with the blast of fuggy air from the heat pump above the door. Even though it’s a clear warm autumn day, inside it feels like a dying sauna.

The next thing to hit me is the smell.  What is that?  Stale urine unsuccessfully masked by antiseptic, a fake sickly vanilla scent, with the lingering odour of bulk packet gravy?  Actually I made that bit up.  I’ll let you in on a little secret.  I’m actually anosmic.  Can’t smell a thing!  So the smell is kind of a Schrödinger’s cat.  Until it can be proven by someone else it is both there and not there.  Just goes to show, the size of the equipment doesn’t necessarily reflect the efficacy of it.

9936, the code to let us through the first door. “Why can’t you ever remember that?” asks my husband incredulously.  I pop out my eyes and shrug my shoulders.  It’s the same question every time, with the same answer.  We like our little routines.

Half way down the corridor two women in their 80s have heads together, talking and laughing like school girls.  They see us coming and start to wave elegantly, a cross between a royal wave and screwing in a light bulb.  I’ve never seen them before but their beaming faces encourage me to be playful, and I flap my hands in greeting.

Deep in my gut, however, is apprehension of what will come.

My father in law is lying on a low bed with padded grey mats on the floor either side of the bed, in case he rolls out.  He doesn’t look as if he is rolling anywhere soon.  We take a minute to absorb the sight of his thin motionless frame, skeletal beneath the white cotton sheets.  The only visible sign of life is the regular movement of air through his toothless mouth.  We’d been told that someone had stolen his teeth, but the sight is unsettling, like a death mask.

My brother in law Kosta is here.  Pacing the room like a big bald lion, then standing at the end of the bed, glowering and roaring.   “Why was he in a wheelchair anyway?  Why wasn’t he in his chair? He wouldn’t be lying here on his deathbed!”

My dear sweet husband takes his father’s hand and tries to placate his brother.

While angry shots are fired above my head, I sink to the soft mats on the floor and take his other hand.  Instinctively I feel his pulse.  His hearts blood reaches up to meet my fingertips in a strong even beat, more suited to a 19 year old boy, not a 91 year old dying man.

The doctor comes in and checks the usual vitals.  I run my own checks with her; No, he won’t wake up.  Yes, all medications have been stopped.  No, they won’t be feeding him.  

He’s unconscious and there is no consideration of a feeding tube.  It looks like if the bleeding on the brain doesn’t get him first, then a slow death by starvation will.  For fucks sake!

The doctor leaves and more pot shots are fired from the end of the bed. Peow, peow, peow!

I drop to the soft edges on the floor again and lean in.  “Hi Dad” I say, even though he is not my dad, it is the Greek way.  “Can you hear me, it’s Amanda.  Are you in there?  I’m here with Angele and Kosta.   You look very comfortable there. “  

One eye lazily opens.  Although I say lazily, it must have taken a lot of effort to do that.

I’m about to speak again when two nurses come to attend to him and we are ushered out.

The three of us sit in the corner of the rec room.   There hasn’t been any rec going on here for as long as I’ve known it.

“Ruby Red Legs is making her move up the outside, My Chagrin is boxed in and Lambsgobarr still leading.”  The tellie is deafening, I can’t see the screen but the sound blasts straight in my left ear.  Angele takes a work phone call and bellows above the noise into my right ear.  In between, Kosta and I are talking about what we tell the children. Do we let them see him like this?  Kosta tells me what he’s told his kids.  He tells me 3 times.  It seems to be a family trait.  Always the same story 3 times. Yes 3 times.

I try to keep my face neutral but I know there is pain all over it.  Annoyance from the din around me, the moaning, shouting and indistinguishable cries from the residents, discomfort from the relentless muggy heat, sadness at the living dead staring into the unknown. 

More nurses and staff come and go into the room, it seems to be taking a long time.

Finally one comes to the door and says “you can come in.  He’s up!”

And there is dad, seemingly risen from the dead, sitting on the edge of the bed. His unseeing eyes do not stop him from knowing we are there or who we are. He chats, he remembers everyone, he has some strange coma hallucination memories that he thinks are real, but in general you’d never know there was anything wrong.

“Nero, nero” he repeats.  “Water, water.”  Such very thirsty work being unconscious for 4 days without eating or drinking.

More staff, including the doctor come to see the miracle. Yes, they will reinstate his medication.  Yes, he can have something to eat.  No one offers any prognosis.  A few have theories of how it happened.  Kosta says its because the sedatives the hospital gave him wore off.

Hmm, I know what I’m going to believe. And it’s not that.

Addendum:

My father in law stayed with us for 2 months, reminiscing and giving all a chance to say goodbye.  So he satisfactorily beat that 2 day prognosis we were originally given.  However, it’s difficult to say that it was worth the pain he went through after having two more falls.  The last fall broke his hip.  The death sentence for so many elderly, and so it proved to be for my father in law.

So tomorrow we lay this beautiful man to rest.  Such a gentle man, kind and forgiving.  

I can only fit pieces of his life together.  Those bits he wished to talk about.  Or that I was privileged to witness.  Like how important bread was during the war!  

How he worked as a taxi driver, paid off the house and retired early, to tend to his garden, take long walks around the park and surrounding streets, go to the Greek club every Tuesday and Thursday, the markets with Soula on Friday and Church on Sunday.  

He grew the best tasting tomatoes you’ve ever had, heartily enjoyed Soula’s fabulous cooking, played tavli (backgammon) with his family and made the most dreadful wine with his neighbour Dominic.

“Amenda, have some wine!”

“Awe, gee thanks George, but it’s a bit early for me.”

“It’s good for you!”

“I’m sure it is, but I’ll get too sleepy if I have any now”

“Here, pour Amenda some wine” Passes the bottle to Angele who fills a tumbler and hands it to me with a wicked expression.

He didn’t talk about the hardships of coming to a new country, learning a new language and marrying a girl he’d never met.  Nor the devastating grief of losing his only daughter to a car accident at only 24 years of age.

We did hear quite often about the bread though, did I mention the bread?

Rest in eternal peace George Gambas. We shall share some bread and raise a glass of wine in your memory.