“Can you come to the hospital?” Mother said over the phone.
Suddenly, I became eerily aware of an intense silence. I was looking out the window and the sun seemed unusually bright. My heart thudded loudly in my chest.
“Hmmm … “ I remember myself saying. “What’s not happening?”
“Please come.” Mother said simply.
I hung up. My footfalls echoed in the empty hall. My keys jarred harshly as I locked the door. My car alarm squeaked unusually loudly.
I don’t remember much about the drive.
Mother was waiting for me at the entrance of Aga Khan.
Here’s the thing about mothers. You might fondly believe that you can ‘read’ your mother, but the truth of the matter is that you read only what your mother allows you to read.
And today mother was not allowing me to read a single thing. In fact, she was smiling.
So she took me aside and explained. I listened.
My father had a cardiac arrest as they were feeding him. They had resuscitated him, but the doctors had told her that medically, there was not much they could do for him.
To fix his heart, he needed a heart transplant, which he could not get because his kidneys were in a terrible state. And to fix his kidneys he needed a kidney transplant, which he could not get because his heart was in a terrible state.
And so the question was what to do next, given that another cardiac arrest was inevitable.
Mother told me that she was of the opinion that nothing should be done. But she wanted to get my opinion.
“I agree.” I replied without hesitation.
My father had been very unwell for a long time. When I could tell that it was very difficult for him was all the way back in 2008.
You would not understand this if you didn’t know my father. My father could have a broken leg and not let anyone know. He gave the impression that letting you know such things would bother you, and he didn’t like that.
And so I looked at my mother as she smiled gently at me and held my arm.
“Can I see him?” A voice that seemed to come from somewhere else echoed in my ears.
“Yes.’” Mother said. “He can’t speak to you, but he can hear you. Come.”
And so we went.
The Aga Khan ICU was smaller than I had imagined. Sterilized. Green. Mother waited at the door as I went in.
Dad lay on his back. A tube in his mouth. His breathing laboured. His body smaller than I remembered it. His grey hair seemed greyer. His eyes closed. His face worn.
It then suddenly and intensely hit me that I would never hear my father’s voice again. Sit on the verandah with him and hear his infectious laugh. Watch him listen quietly as I elaborated my problems to him.
I remember walking to the large glass windows, turning my back on the room, leaning on my elbows on the window sill and silently and brokenly weeping.
Mothers of course can detect such things miles away. I heard her her come in and walk right up behind me.
I wept into my mother’s arms.
“My child,” She said.
The wave of grief went.
I sat beside Dad. And looked at this man who had raised me. And taught me. And mentored me. And been a friend.
I ran a hand over his hair.
“Good sir,” I opened.
I can’t remember what I told him. The one thing I do remember is that I thanked him. And that I wept some more.
And then I was with mum outside.
“We will need to tell my brothers.” I told her.
She smiled. Sadly, I think.
“They’re on their way.”
And so a bit later we were explaining to them what mum had explained to me.
And their reaction was exactly like mine.
“He has suffered enough. Let him rest.”
And then a doctor was with us.
I forget his name but it struck me that he seemed almost as sad as we were.
In his opinion, Dad was unlikely to last the evening.
Later that evening, as I explained to friends at the entrance what was happening I received a call from a brother.
“He’s going” he said simply.
The machines connected to Dad, monitoring his vitals were beeping as they had been all day. They did not know who they were connected to. Nor did they care.
The big numbers slowly began to count down.
I remember watching those numbers with … desperation. Never had I wanted something to stop reducing and start increasing.
But the machines know no one and care for no one. 90, 80, 70, 60 …
And then they were at zero.
In hospital dramas there is normally an alarm of some sort. But here there was silence.
I stood at the side of the bed and an intense feeling I’ve never felt before hit me like a sledge hammer.
Brokenness, I think, would be the word. I have never felt so broken.
I ran my hand over my father’s hair again, a kaleidoscope of thoughts, memories, wishes and regrets blaring through my head.
“Captain. My captain.” Are the words that stumbled out of my mouth, as tears ran down my cheeks.