The Last Road Trip

haunted

You never forget the eyes of a dying man.

Nothing can ever prepare you for the death of a parent. It’s something I’d thought about for years, wondered how it would play out. There were so many possibilities. I waited for the call letting me know me he’d gone, but he was a strong, resilient man and dodged many a bullet in his time. I was waiting for the one that took him down, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I approached the open door to his small dank flat.

I’d been phoning him for three days. I left messages but no response. If he’d been on a bender I would expect a frustrating conversation where I’d question his drinking. His speech would be slow and slurred, repeating himself and getting irritated with my quizzing. In response to his denial I’d threaten to sent an ambulance to make sure he wasn’t having a stroke. This was only ever a threat, he couldn’t bear the thought of his space being invaded by strangers and his health monitored, so much so that he’d normally admit he’d had ‘ a couple of pints with the lads’.

It’s important to know that it wasn’t always like this, we’d check in with each other a couple of times a week … sometime more, sometimes less. Sober he was a an intelligent man, we’d talk about current issues, we’d discuss the allotment, his ailments ( a lot ), the kids and just regular chit chat… but it was Russian roulette, I never knew what to expect…. unless he was on a bender.

On this occasion nothing for three days. His sister, my auntie, whom he adored was over from Australia, he’d normally be on his best behaviour …. I was worried.

In the pit of my stomach I knew. I’d spoken to my brother about his lack of contact but on this third day a son’s intuition kicked in. I phoned John that morning, the morning of September 29th 2015 to say I was going to contact the police, they needed to go check on him. But John said no, lets jump in the car and go ourselves. It so happened that we were both free and childcare sorted… like it was meant to be. Our road trips happened to be a perk of life, a silver lining to a dark heavy cloud. In a twisted way I relished the thought of 2 and a half hours on the M1. These were precious times I’d spent with my brother over the years listening to Techno, Acid House, eating bags of Walkers and putting the worlds to rights. It’s part of our history that I cherish, we were in it together.

We arrived in Chesterfield. He lived just on the outskirts. We considered which pubs we’d go to first, would we find his mobility scooter outside the Devonshire Arms, would he be at home pissed on the bed ? We tentatively touched on the other options.

Standing in the dark corridor, back lit by the front room window there appeared to be the silhouette of an old lady. She looked bemused, shocked and out of place, like she’d been transported into another world… like Will from Stranger Things, waking up in the ‘Upside Down’ and not knowing where the fuck he was … that kind of look.

She looked directly at us, it was only then that I saw she was standing next to a body.

As I’m writing this I have a huge dilemma, I don’t want the death of my father to be trivialised, like its just another post to get likes or sympathy, its far from that ….. I’ll never have the writing skills to capture the horror, emotions, significance of that moment, any of the moments, but it was such an incredibly pivotable time for me that needs to be documented. On this day everything changed, fundamentally I changed. I made a promise to him and myself that all this pain wasn’t in vain , something good will come of this. I read a book by Ryan Holiday called ‘The Obstical Is The way’ … and fuck me, there’s a massive obstacle here. I can either put my back behind it and make some movement, or it will crush me. I have a choice, but that means the story has to be told. I can only see it from my eyes, tell it from my perspective. I can’t take responsibility if it makes you feel uncomfortable like I’m sailing his memory down the swanny , I can’t change what happened. Alcoholism isn’t pretty, it strips a person of dignity, their potential, their future. Alcoholism doesn’t discriminate.. it doesn’t just happen to ‘those’, it doesn’t care how many degrees you have, how much money you have in the bank, where you live, your religion … it doesn’t give a fuck.

We walked through the front door into the narrow corridor and explained we are his children. Painted in sunflower yellow the hall was home to his mobility scooter leading to the front room with the bathroom to the right. It was a small space but he was laying in-between the corridor and the bathroom. He was wearing a jumper with a quilt covering his lower body. I later learned it was one made lovingly by his sister, that gave me comfort. The woman had protected his dignity when she discovered him. The woman was his neighbour, she’d been alerted by a stranger delivering wine who’d knocked on his open door, on seeing my dad he scarped and knocked the neighbour up. Bizarrely enough we arrived on the scene around 20 mins after her, as far as I can remember she’d phoned an ambulance but I jumped on the phone to see where the hell they were.

To my surprise he was still alive.

The next twenty minutes where hell. I knelt by his side, looked into his eyes and saw the terror of a dying man. I was speaking to him, telling him that he was a stupid bugger and he’d really gone and done it this time. That he was going to come to Hitchin and live close to me, I’d offered so many times before but he never took me up on it. John was kneeling by his side, he said that dad must of heard my voice because there was a flicker in his eye when I spoke. I’m not sure how I feel about that, if he’d heard me then it meant that over the past three days he was lying on the floor knowing I wasn’t there.

I was on the phone trying to speak to the emergency services… I left John with dad and went outside to wait for the ambulance. I like to think it’s because I was in control and making things happen. In truth its because I couldn’t handle it, I couldn’t handle that hope was slipping away, that he wasn’t coming back from this. That this was how it was playing out. I’d like to think that I was being a help but really I was being a coward by letting my brother spend the last 10 minutes we’d have alone with him.

I’m ashamed to say I screamed down the phone to the controller, what’s wrong with him they said, ‘he’s fucking dying’ I shouted, not long after I could hear the syrians and eventually the blue lights started to reflect off the windows down the street. That sound and flashing blue lights will never be the same again to me .. my thoughts go out to the unknown lives in turmoil.

We managed to get him into the Ambulance, it was a struggle, not an easy job to manoeuvre the equipment in such a confined space. The paramedics were incredible, as a society we don’t celebrate these heroic men and women enough. Not only do they turn up to unknown situations but they have to deal with the emotions of relatives. They were really good fun lads that brought a lightness to the situation. John and I have always managed to find dark humour in minutes of pure frustration and turmoil, so this was a welcomed response.

Following the blue lights to the hospital was surreal, deep down we knew the outcome but still hoped for the best. I’ve come to hate the word Hope… it often feels so weak and futile.

Once admitted the wait began, they took us into a small room to the side of A&E and we waited … apparently they were working on him for a while before telling us that he was still alive but in a critical condition. Eventually he was stable enough to have full body scans and be taken to intensive care where we were able to see him.

When in Intensive Care we went to yet another small room where we waited, we joined another woman who’s son was in a bad way. He was also an alcoholic with liver failure … I’m not sure of his outcome, he was just a young fella in his thirties. We saw her the next day having a fag outside, we wished her the best, she acknowledged the sorrow in our eyes.

He was plugged in and wired up, he looked peaceful and calm. The bed looked comfortable and sparkly clean. We were able to spend some time with him although it was getting late. The main doctor wanted to talk privately, basically the machines were keeping him alive but we were offered the option of the night for him to pull through, his kidney’s were on dialysis with an incredibly slim chance of fighting back, if there was a chance we wanted to give it to him. He was a strong man.

We went to a good friends to stay the night, sadly returning in the morning at 9am there was no change. Devastated, the machines were turned off.

John and I were with him to the end. At that moment the hope I’d carried with me since I can remember, that he’d be able to beat his addiction and live a happy fulfilled life died with him. He was an inspiring man with so much love for life and potential for great things, but he got knocked down and used alcohol as a crutch.

They think he’d had a massive stroke which knocked him to the floor. On his death certificate the cause of death was hyperthermia and organ failure, which was a real blow. If I or someone had found him earlier he wouldn’t have been on the cold floor for three days, things may have been different.

There was no mention of alcoholism or it being an alcohol related death. I know he’ll be looking down saying “ I told you I’m not a bloody alcoholic !”.

Alcoholism doesn’t just happen, it slowly creeps into your life and chips away at your self esteem, motivation, ability to see things with clarity, your health and mental wellbeing… its a slow burner. He was once the life and sole of the party. I wish I could have seen him in his youth, sking down mountains, on road trips in his Stag, travelling around the world. But that was before I was born. It fills me with such incredible sadness I can’t put it into words, I can’t even try.

My Dad was a good man whom I loved and found frustrating in equally huge measures. If we want to break the cycle of addiction we must open up the conversation around alcoholism and how it effects the family environment. It doesn’t just effect one person, a whole family can be shattered to the detriment of future generations.

If you’ve been touched by alcoholism it’s important to know that you’re not alone, there’s support out there. If you’re a child of an alcoholic and would like to talk to someone, NACOA is a fabulous charity. If you just want to reach out and know that someone understands .. I’m hear to listen. If you’re worried about your own drinking and are looking for information the AA is a good place to start. I have friends in the fellowship who are in recovery and doing really well.

When looking into my Dad’s eyes I made a promise to both of us, something good has to come out of this horrible mess. If by using my experience I can help just one person suffer less that would be a positive.

Always retreating into creativity as a form of escapism it comes as no surprise that I’m working on an art project to open up this conversation in a creative and contemporary way … and one day I will be proud to dedicate it in the memory of John G Cook.