When I heard the news I was shocked. I had no choice but to drop everything and head for the hospital. My poor dad, who was never known to be sick, had finally succumbed to one of those ubiquitous and mysterious diseases, which seem to plague the modern world. He was getting on a bit; indeed I’m no chicken myself; so my feet carried me in a frantic haste into the nearest taxi.

The cab sped through the streets without meeting any undue traffic, and I arrived at St Mary’s fairly quickly. Even so, my heart was pounding with anxiety as I sped up the maze of corridors. The polished floor stretched out before me, presenting a formidable barrier between me and my destination. Like most hospitals, all the walkways looked the same, and I scanned the ward numbers anxiously, fearful of losing valuable time by taking the wrong turn.

My mind was racing on ahead of me. I could see the image of the Ward Sister, or her equally indomitable Deputy Staff Nurse, standing at the entrance to the ward, examining every visitor with a ferocious, all seeing eye. “Visitors must wait in the Waiting Room until Visiting Hours, have you wiped your feet, only two visitors per bed, don’t bring flowers they use up all the oxygen, the patient belongs to us you are only here because we condescend to allow you to see the poor sick one”

Oh God! Supposing dad already had his ration of guests, gathered weeping around his bed. Would I be allowed to join that mourning throng of querulous siblings gazing down on his emaciated body, anticipating events and already tasting the ensuing drinks and free food at the wake. I might be relegated to the dreaded Waiting Room.

“Smoking is Forbidden in This Room, whether you are Knee Deep in Angst and Grief or Not”

I absolutely loathed the antiseptic ambience of that environment. Sitting on those horribly uncomfortable plastic chairs. Feeling their impact on semi somnolent haemorrhoids, while casting glances to left or right to observe if that flat shapelessness was having the same effect on other reluctant guests. Hearing the sharp clatter of over bearing heels carrying the harridan into an informal inspection. Watching her officious eyes darting hither and thither for miscreants, while her nostrils twitched to the aroma of forbidden nicotine or involuntary flatulence.

My imagination wound down as I arrived at the designated ward. My heart fell as I saw the crestfallen Ward Sister, not a bit dragon like, rather more of a petite Mary Poppins in some distress. Her eyes met mine in a momentary confusion.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said. “He’s gone”

Gone! My dad had shuffled off this mortal coil, and I never had the chance to say goodbye. No more the option of lovingly clasping that withered hand in an effort to comfort him as he began that Final Journey. My heart felt as though I could no longer carry it, and my eyes filled with the stinging salt of adult tears.

“He’s gone!” She repeated. This time in tones of some indignation.

“And he’s taken my prettiest auxiliary nurse with him.”

The old devil! The relief I felt was tinged with envy. He would be somewhere en route to some romantic island in the Caribbean by now. Searching, no doubt, for the warmest, most secluded beach.

He probably has the most suntanned buttocks of any resident of the Northern hemisphere.

Copyright © 2005 Thomas Vaughan