Bad Property Management

THE DEATH OF MY FATHER

To Every Man.

THE DEATH OF MY FATHER

The call came on Saturday evening, a few minutes past midnight. It was actually an email from my brother. But however it came it was the “WAKE UP” call.  Email from my brother:

Dear June,

Dad has been taken to Salford Royal Hospital after suffering a severe stroke. It is possible that he may not recover.

It is the wake-up call, which says; no matter the past and the relationship and kind of  relationship you may have had, this is the moment, the last time, to be able to see the most important man in your life – your Father.

Now is the time to sort things out, do the best and lay to rest all and everything that your personal relationship means to you  with your father.

It was my father this time. And I aimed to answer the last clarion call.

I immediately phoned the hospital to check he was alright, still alive and still there. They said he was and I said I would phone in the morning. I understand that at midnight and early hours of morning there is nothing I can do..  It would be of no help  to rush up, be emotionally upset and get under the feet of night staff on an emergency admissions ward. I had to wait, have hope and have patience.  The medical and nursing staff needed to do what was best for my dad through the night. Especially as I was over 300 miles away on the edge of the Sussex coast and my dad was in Salford Royal Hospital asleep and in deep expiring condition.  No one was going anywhere. And especially in the depths of night.  The only thing to do was to go to bed and promise to ring in the morning.

 

I rang the hospital and my brother the following day. The hospital said he was near death and get up today Sunday in order to see him not wait until Monday.  I phoned my brother who said “Don’t bother. He’s near death. He wont know you. He probably will not wake up.”  He said, “It’s not worth it.” “He has dementia.” “He is in a coma, just a vegetable.” My brother also rolled off without stopping taking breath or empathy said. “You don’t even have to bother with the funeral. We’ll sort out funeral as well. No reason for you to come up. You can forget about it. Need not think about it at all.”

Ignoring all that, I got my coat, dashed out the door, got a taxi, got on the train and went up.

Sunday is a bastard time to be moving anywhere, especially on public transport.

Because of rail works straight through train to London Victoria or Charring Cross was not happening.  I was given a really long way round as the shortest, quickest ticket, but not the cheapest.

From Hastings to Ashford International, change at Ashford International for train to St Pancreas, change at St Pancreas to cross London to London Euston. Catch London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly, change at Manchester Piccadilly for train to Salford.

Money was paid, and I went up. Dad is more important.

Had a little bit of cross confusion when I got to Manchester and decided to take a taxi to the hospital instead of a train which did not stop anywhere near it. The taxi driver asked which Salford Hospital.  Royal or Hope?  I had forgotten what the email had said. He got increasingly terse saying I should not get into a taxi if I did not know where I was going.  I forgot Salford had two hospitals. And headed down the longest route to the hospital the longest way away from the station and anything else. In far end of Salford, nearer to Eccles, but we wont hold that against them. But these things are meant to try us, especially when we are in a hurry and a desperate emotional hurry to be with someone we love or try and sort out a serious family situation or upset.

I got dropped off at the hospital. The wrong drop off point of course, and had to walk all way round the biggest building and complex to first find A&E and admissions and find out my father was in a part of the building requiring a further walk, out the door and round and round another big fat building and back in again. I then found out later that the ward my dad was in was just a short walk down the internal corridor from A&E.

Dad was in the emergency admissions unit. A good unit, with good staff, caring, clean efficient and professional.  All patients in their single private room.

Dad was in room 25. He was a dying, dead man breathing. Deep in a place of deep repose and unrecoverable sleep.  My brother had been and gone. The staff said, he was very  cold. Looked and starred at the body of my dad in the bed, told the staff to let him know when his father died, and then left telling then he would come back for the funeral.

I said the relationship between dad and us were difficult. It was different times and my brother took the most and brunt of it. Still, those were the days and we all need to move on or we will get stuck in it, and we will only harm ourselves.

Before, leaving my brother had told the staff and spoken about me, warning them that I was terse, short tempered and blunt and a handful. The staff actually liked me, because I was Northern, down to earth, terse, blunt and a handful and practical and straight forward when it came to sorting things out, caring for dad and any other problems in life.

Love is part of life, so best just “Get On with It.”

I stayed with Dad. Stayed at side of him. Waiting it out. I was given a cot bed so I could stay at side of him overnight. I heard him snore all night long and then cry out in middle of night around 3am when some dream took hold him and gave him a nightmare. I put my hand on is chest, held his head in the other hand and shushed and told him “It’ll be alright.”

Some people cannot do that. Cannot be with someone while they are dying. It’s too much and they have to go off and say “Call me later when he/she is gone.” Their feelings and fears are so twisted up.

That’s OK.  If you cannot do it, you cannot do it. It is just that these people seem to suffer off worse when it comes to dealing with their grief later. But it has to be respected that some people just cannot do it.

My advice is, you must not be afraid of death, your own or anyone else’s. It is inevitable. It will come round eventually. It may take a long time coming, but eventually it will get you. So it is a waste of life worrying about it. A waste of feelings. A waste of life.

The following day,  I spent more time just being at the side of him, just waiting, waiting, waiting. One thing I did find out was the Nil By Mouth was another way of bringing in and practising the Liverpool Care Programme or passive euthanasia.  This is where all foods and fluids are withheld from the person in order to hurry death. But I have been a quite open and vocal opposition voice to this. I have advocated against this euthanasia through the backdoor. And also advocated against idea by writing a quite strong blog “De-Hydration is Not a Painless Death.” I do not write such a blog and then let medical staff withdraw fluids to hasten his end. So the medics got a strong reminder that we do not kill off our elders in this country yet, and we do not withdraw water from a dying man. I quoted the Bible, Koran, Torah and Book of Common Prayer and Methodist Hymn Book at the doctor who was clearly from some basic ethnical background that might need reminding of this.  They reinstated the fluids. I know it is drawing near the end, but why add any more discomfort? De-hydration is like having a worse hangover all through your body, as the dehydration of the brain causes painful hangovers. And that kind of pain and trauma will go through the whole of your body as you withhold fluids from all your vital organs,  The worse thing being the skin, The biggest organ of the body.  As the skin dies out and and receeds it pinches all the nerves. So every nerve is in agony. De-Hydration is not  painless death. Always oppose it, it is not merciful and it is not kind.

I went out to Manchester to go on the computer in the library and keep up to date.  They were very kind, both in Manchester and Bolton they gave me free time or reduced price on my time knowing my father was dying. Nice to find people still care, our world is becoming so rough, coarse and unloving. Good to be among northern affection and care again.

 

My father HE WAS BORN IN 1925. THE SON OF DOMESTIC SERVANT AND CHAUFFER WORKING IN THE BIG HOUSE AT BRADLEY FOLD, THE ONE NEXT TO THE RESERVOIR WHICH TURNED INTO A CARE HOME ITSELF LATER.

 

IN THOSE DAYS DOMESTIC SERVANTS HAD TO BE AVAILABLE 24/7, 7 DAYS A WEEK, 52 DAYS A YEAR. NO TIME OFF AND NO HOLIDAYS.  I REMEMBER GRANDMA KNIGHT IVY SAYING SHE WAS ONCE GIVEN HALF A DAY OFF AS A SERVING GIRL, AND SHE THOUGHT IT WAS LUXURY.

 

IT WAS A MEAN BITTER WINTER WHEN ALBERT’S MOTHER GOT PREGNANT. HIS FATHER ERNEST CAUGHT A  SERIOUS INFLUENZA VIRUS AND WITH HIS LUNGS FROM THE WAR AND PROBABLY PIPE SMOKING HE CAME DOWN FAST AND TOOK JUST ONE DAY OFF, BECAUSE HE WAS SO BAD.

 

HOWEVER, IN THOSE DAYS THERE WAS NO MERCY. AS HE WAS NOT AVAILABLE TO THE FAMILY FOR THE DAY HE WAS SACKED, AND THAT ALSO MEANT HE AND HIS NEW PREGNANT WIFE WERE ALSO INSTANTLY EVICTED FROM THEIR TIED ACCOMMODATION ABOVE THE GARAGE AND STABLES.

 

SO IVY WENT BACK TO HER PARENTS WHILE ERNEST FOUND A NEW JOB AND NEW DIGS.

 

IT WAS NOT EASY, AND WE HAVE TO REMEMBER THAT. WE CANNOT JUDGE PEOPLE BY OUR OWN TIMES. LIFE WAS TOUGH, PEOPLE WERE TOUGH AND THEY HAD TO TEACH THEIR CHILDREN TO BE TOUGH AS LIFE HAD NO MERCY, THERE WERE NO RIGHTS AND POVERTY AND THE WORKHOUSE THAT STILL EXISTED WAS JUST AROUND THE CORNER IF YOU WERE NOT GOOD ENOUGH, STRONG ENOUGH OR LUCKY.

 

SO ALBERT WAS BORN, ON 23RD JUNE 1929. THE FIRST OF 4 SONS. GERALD, JOHN AND RONNIE. A HANDFUL OF BOYS. A TOUGH LIFE. A MOTHER WHO HAD BEEN BROUGHT UP TO BE SELF DISCIPLINED AND STRICT AND TO BE STRICT AND DISCIPLINED WHEN IT CAME TO HER LADS.

 

IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND MY DAD, YOU HAD TO UNDERSTAND THE TIME.

 

THERE WAS A TEACHING AT THAT TIME BY A SO CALLED CHILD EXPERT NOT TO PICK UP CHILDREN OR NEW BORN BABIES. NOT TO CUDDLE THEM OR RESPOND TO THEIR NEEDS BUT ALLOW THEM TO CRY IT OUT AND BE ALONE AND GET USED TO THE FACT THAT THE PARENT AND MOTHER WAS NOT GOING TO RESPOND TO THEM. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO TEACH THE BABY NOT TO BE DEPENDENT AND NEEDY AND DEMANDING. IT WAS THOUGHT LOVING AND CUDDLING A  BABY WOULD INDULGE IT AND WOULD CREATE A PROBLEM CHILD.

 

WE NOW KNOW THAT NOT REPSONDING AND CUDDLING A CHILD OR YOUNG NEW BORN BABY CAN CAUSE THE CHILD CONFUSION, THEN DISTRESS AND THEN AFTER A WHILE WHEN IT REALISES NO ONE IS GOING TO RESPOND OR CUDDLE IT OR CARE OR LOVE IT THE CHILD LEARNS NOT TO EXPECT. AND ALSO RELATIONSHIPS AND ABILITY TO CARE AND BE AFFECTIONATE ARE BUILT IN FIRST FEW YEARS OF LIFE. OR THEY CAN CUT OFF AND BE UNABLE TO RESPOND, RELATE OF C0OMMUNICATE IN LOVE.

 

THIS WAS THE HARSH REGIME OR STIFF UPPER LIP AND DISTANT EDWARDIAN FATHERS. The punishment was being kicked up n downstairs     on the end of clog heeled steel capped boots, and thrashings and sound beatings at end of a belt buckle or chair leg. Ah them were the days. the good old days everyone talked about.

 

MY FATHER LIKE MANY FATHERS AND PEOPLE OF THAT TIME FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO LOVE OR RESPOND OR SHOW AFFECTION. MY FATHER FOUND IT CONFUSING AND DISTRESSING TO BE OFFERED LOVE AND CARE AND FRIENDSHIP.  YOU COULD SEE HE HAD DIFFICULTY AND TRYING TO DO SO CONFUSED HIM. BUT IF ANYONE IS WISE THEY CAN SEE THROUGH THAT. AND IF THEY LOVE THEY CAN WORK THROUGH THAT.

 

IN MY TEENS AND TWENTIES I WORKED HARD AT TRYING TO UNDERSTAND MY DAD AND GET TO KNOW HIM. IT WAS THE CARING 80s There was a lot OF OPEN EXPRESSION AND HUGS. I GAVE MY DAD HUGS WHICH CONFUSED HIM AND HE FOUND AWKWARD. IT TOOK SOME TIME BUT ONE DAY IN YORK HE HUGGED ME BACK .  HE NEARLY CRUSHED ME. THERE WAS SO MUC H PASSION AND UNALLOWED REPRESSED  FEELINGS AND LOVE  SUDDENLY ALLOWED OUT.  IT WAS ACTUALY VERY PAINFUL. THERE WAS SO MUCH NEVER ALLOWED BEFORE. SO THAT WAS UNDER MY FATHER.

 

A VERY PASSINATE MAN AND A VERY SENSITIVE CHILD.

 

Despite the background, difficulties poverty and discipline my father and his brothers were very ambitious and active

 

My father was someone who WENT FOR IT!!

 

He took advantage of every opportunity going and made his opportunities.

 

He became an engineer and draughtsman. He was a self taught musician.  He played  brass trumpet and horns in jazz bands, swing bands, dancebands and in particular brass bands. He also taught himself all the notes reading and writing and could write and score a whole orhestra and brass band.  He was very talented, veryskilled very determined and very focused.

 

I could do with some of that.

 

He and his brothers were athletic and did boxing and gymnastics. you can see from the pictures. He was a local

Northwest Champion and was offered a place in the 1952 Olympics.  But unfortunately he couldnotgo  as a working class lad he wouldhave to give up his job which was like gold.  They also had tofind thousands of pounds each to fund themselves going and taking part. This was before any funding and sponsorship, and was clearly impossible for the common manand the normal working class man in those times. It was an opportunity he missed. but he remained active and interested all his life.

 

He would challenge people to walk all the way home from the pub on his hands.   even in his 70s passing  a playground with parralell bars when I was with him, he could not pass up the opportunity and challenge. He lept on them and began to swing. He did a full repertoir of moves, including swingsover and under bars, crisscroossed arms and did a handstand crisscrossed before doing a flip and landing on his feet in perfect Olympic gymnast position. I was alarmed when he started and told him not too as he may have an injury or accident. But as he continued and I watched him I thought Sod it. If he was going to go this would be the best way of going swinging on parralllel bars than sat in an armchair watchin daytime TV.

 

he decided he was going to become an engineer. 14years old he walked into a engineering firm, asked to see the foreman, said he wanted to become an          engineer and asked to become an apprentice This was against

his families wishes who just wanted him to get a job and contribute to family at 14, when he left school, but he just got on with it, went for his ambition and  DID IT.

 

He was a prankster, and a long tall tale teller.  He would start telling a tale in all seriousness and get the listener sucked in. it was only at the end the person realised my dad was telling them a yarn with a twist at the end which he would expertly drop them in it. momentary shock, and then shared laughter.

one such example was once it was deep cold midwinter all damp and frost. no flowers.  he wd buy several bunches of cut flowers and very early in morning before any one was up go and stick them in the garden as if they were naturally growing there.  he wd then stand naunchaulently there as people walked past.  he wd watch as they took second looks.  then ask how he did it. how he managed to grow flowers in the midst of winter.  he wd go into some long yarn about right conditions and compost and cross pollunation.  he wd then offer to pick one for them.  when he did and they realisedhe hadtaken them on a long tale and wound them up just to see their faces and get them laughing and cheer them up in depths of deep cold damp winter.

 

He was a prankster.  my dad and me and bomy wood.  every year we kids would collect bomy wood. being a girl i wd get picked on and all the boy gangs would nick or bomy wood. i was quite distraught. but my dad saidnever mindwe will ni kit all back the night before guy fawkes night bysneaking in  early morning  middle of the night.

 

so we did. woke up early in middle of night and together  dad and childaccomplice  reconnoitered all our wood back.  but left them enough to think tbey had agoodbonfire pile  until they set light to it. it did not lastso long as i had wisely taken all the middle out.

 

best stop there but so successful did itfor 4 years running.

 

mymum said she couldnot unxerstand why she wokeupand found meand my dad inour bedsbut hands and face blackenedbut a look or contentment on both  our faces

 

DID MY FATHER LOVE?

YES HE DID. HE WAS A PERFECTIONIST AND ALSO VERY AMBITIOUS.

I REMEMBER LIVING ROUND THE CORNER FROM HIME IN LATE 1980S EARLY 1990S WHILE DOING MY NURSING TRAINING.

 

I WANTED MY SMALL ONE BEDROOM COUNCIL FLAT TO BE DECORATED THROUGHOUT SIMPLY AND CHEAPLY AS I WAS ON A STUDENT NURSES BURSARY. MY FATHER WAS DETERMINED TO DO IT AS HIS QUEST. I CHOOSE A CHEAP ANAGLYPTA WALLPAPER WITH A SIMPLE TINY FLOWER RAISED PATTERN.

 

MY FATHER WAS DETERMINED HE WAS GOING TO THIS.

 

SO I WENT TO WORK EVERY MORNING AND CAME BACK TO THE FLAT PAINTED AND DECORATED THROUGHOUT.  I WENT OUT THE FOLLOWING MORNING TO COME BACK TO FIND THE WHOLE PLACE STRIPPED AND MY FATHER REDOING THE DECORATING BECAUSE HE FELT ONE TINY FLOWER WAS OUT OR A BUBBLE OR SOMETHING WRONG. I RELENTED AND HE EVEN BOUGHT THE REPLACEMENT WALLPAPER.  SO THE FLAT WAS COMPLETED AGAIN.  I WENT TO WORK THE FOLLOWING MORNING TO COME BACK TO ANOTHER STRIPPED AND DE-WALLPAPERED FLAT.  HE HAD STRIPPED IT AGAIN AS AGAIN HE FELT IT WAS NOT PERFECT.

 

SO AGAIN I LET HIM BUY SOME MORE WALLPAPER AND PROUDLY SET ABOUT IT.

ONLY THING IS, THIS HAPPENED ABOUT 4 TIMES. BY THE 5^TH TIME I CAME BACK HOME FROM A HARD DAY AS A NURSE AND FOUND HIM AGAIN STRIPPING THE WALLPAPER AND NEW DECORATION. AGAIN HE FOUND SOME TINY FAULT.

 

I AM AFRAID I LOST MY INFAMOUS AND WELL KNOWN TEMPER AND ASKED WHAT THE HELL WAS HE DOING.  I JUST WANTED A HOME AND A NICELY FINISHED FLAT. NOT TO COME HOME TO DIY DISASTER EVERYDAY.

 

MY FATHER SLUMPED. GOT OFF HIS LADDER, WRAPPED UP THE PAINT TIN AND ROLLS OR WALLPAPER AND WENT TO GO PAST ME, DOWN THE STAIRS AS WE WERE IN A FIRST FLOOR FLAT AND GO HOME.

 

HE WALKED SLOWLY DOWN THE STAIRS AND STOPPED AT THE HALF WAY LEVEL.

 

HE LOOKED MOANFULLY UP AT ME WITH THE MOST DOLEFUL EYES AND SAID

“I AM YOUR FATHER, AND I LOVE YOU.  I JUST WANT EVERYTHING TO BE PERFECT FOR YOU….”

 

I FELT LIKE A HEEL. HERE WAS A MAN TRYING TO DO THE BEST FOR HIS GIRL AND NOTHING COULD EVER, EVER BE GOOD ENOUGH OR PERFECT ENOUGH.

 

I WALKED DOWN TO HIM, PUT MY HAND ON HIS SHOULDER, PUT MY ARMS ROUND HIS SHOULDER AND BODY ALTHOUGH I COULD FEEL HE COULD NOT ACCEPT OR RESPOND TO THE HUG BUT WAS APPRECIATIVE OF IT ANYWAY AND SAID

“I KNOW DAD, AND I REALLY APPRECIATE.  BUT I WOULD JUST LIKE TO COME BACK TO MY FLAT. FIND IT DECORATED AND FINISHED AND NOT HAVE MOUNTAINS OF WALLPAPER TO CLIMB OVER OR WET PAINT TO AVOID.

 

MY FATHER DID LOVE ME. ITS JUST…..FATHER’S ARE COMPLICATED.

 

The last time i saw him in January this year i was advised not to come up and see him as it was pointless. he  had advanced dementia and probably not recognise me or know. i thought i would ignore that and chance it any way.

 

i am glad I did. it was the last time i saw my Dad, and it was very precious.

As I walkedin he looked up. He knew who I was and recognised me. We both said “Owe Do.” He said “Long time.” “Yeah. Long time.”  And that was it. We just spent time together. He had severe dementia, and I just stayed with him. Stayed for long hours over the days of a long weekend.

 

We had some precious moments and memories.  I took him out to the pub. But did not check and found the first pub. The Red Bridge, at Red Bridge was shut. one of those pubs which has been shut. so pushed him all the way back. Through the estate, through a guinnel  to the Top Bull on Bury. I think it was called something else now.

 

The lads helped me in with. when he went through the door he went Ahh. He knew where he was.

 

we had a nice time. He still had his quipy sense of humour.

 

When we got back to the care home. It was teatime and it was steak and ale pie for tea. Dad had to keep being reminded to eat. He picked at it. I said “Dad. Its steak and ale pie. What beer do you think they have used”

 

 

He said “I don’t know, they must have hidden it.”  And that was  the last things he said. even in the midst of ill health and dementia he still had his quipy sense of humour.

I said I would be up to see him for his 90th birthday in June. and I meant it. But unfortunately this came first and we were robbed of that milestone.

But I do not want the this generation or the next generation to be robbed of its life or its chances. That is why I say we need to move like Albert and his generation or die and lie like Albert and be gone.  It is up to this generation to fight for the next on the shoulders and history of those who have gone before, and not let them crumble again.

There are a lot of things that can be said but not going to be said.  But I am not going to give call to any grievance, nor feed the needs of the tittle tattle or the affectation of the social gossip. I am here to write about him, respect him, remember him, forgive him say Thank you… and move on.. To the next generation and the next to come.  It is in your hands….

June Knight

Albert Knight’s Daughter