Matters of the Heart: Visiting my Dad in hospital

My Dad is a fit guy. At 70 he still cycles competitively (both road racing and mountain biking, which I think is so cool) and is a keen fell-walker. Although he nominally retired a few years ago he still actually works a couple of days a week at his old firm, keeping his mind sharp too. He is probably in better physical and mental health than most 50 year olds.

So when he started to notice that he was losing pace on his bike, dropping behind the guys that he could normally keep up with and getting short of breath, his reaction was to push harder. In time the shortness of breath started to become chest pains and, after trying to convince himself that it was indigestion, finally went to see his GP. A phalanx of tests followed before he learned that his arteries were becoming clogged and that he would need a triple heart bypass. Only at this point did he reveal to me that he had been having sporadic chest pains over many years but thought that he could stay on top of it by keeping fit.

He's never been the sort of guy that opens up to people or talks about his feelings, he's quite old fashioned that way - always a handshake, never a hug, and if you tell him that you love him he looks awkward and says thank you. His way of dealing with a difficult situation is normally to ignore it. I know that a heart bypass is not as high-risk as it was in the pioneering days but it is still a major operation and does still carry a risk. He chose not to focus on that, instead working out a schedule for when he could be back on his bike. Now I'm a big advocate for positive thinking but there is a point at which it becomes denial.

His surgery was yesterday morning. I said goodbye to my family and drove the six hours to the hospital. My daughter wanted to come too and I was touched by that, not least because I think she was offering to make sure that I would be okay. This was something I needed to do on my own though. The journey passed quickly, mile after mile of motorway being measured out in podcasts, the Sat Nav counting down my arrival. I went straight to the hospital but he was still in critical care and it would be some hours before I could see him.

My AirBnB was on the edge of a residential housing estate, uniform rows of identikit square houses laying squat against a greying sky. A football game was taking place on the other side of the road under weak floodlights as the thermometer nudged zero and I scanned the row, counting backwards from the one numbered house, to where I thought my digs might be. My guess proved correct and I was soon ushered through a catalogue lounge that took me back to days spent as a child with an old Great Aunt. She lived in a tiny two up two down but the front room was always kept 'for best' and, to the best of my knowledge, never used. Not once. Whilst not 'for best' my room was at least as described, very small, very cheap and with a comfortable bed. I sat on the bed with good intentions of doing some work but flicked wastefully through YouTube until it was time to head back to the hospital.

Despite being there at the agreed time I was taken to a side room to wait. A nurse came along to apologise for the delay but they were 'just trying to stabilse him'. That's a worrying phrase. If you're trying to achieve stability then you currently have instability and after a major operation that cannot be a good thing. My right brain started to race ahead to a variety of scenarios whilst my left tried gamely to keep it in check. However logical you want to try and be about risk categorisation, when the impact is off the scale you find little comfort in the likelihood.

After about an hour I was able to see him. He was the only person in the critical care unit, it was a Saturday, and looked a little adrift in the solitary bed. Despite all the tubes, dressings, drips and the oxygen mask, he was awake and propped up in bed. Small blood stains to the pillow outlining the spectre of what had gone before, leaving me to fill in the detail. Still medicated, his eyes were heavy. We looked at each other and I could see that he was scared. I was caught off guard, I somehow hadn't expected this. The machinary, the tubes and the blood - all that was just as I'd anticipated. I'd just never seen him vulnerable before, not in control of the situation. Of course how could he be in control of the situation? How could he not be scared?

He crinkled his eyes in greeting and tried to speak underneath the heavy oxygen mask. Frustrated he tried to take it off but it was strapped on in a fairly industrial fashion (apparently because he refused to keep the regular one on). I held his hand and he squeezed mine tight. I can't remember what I said, passing on best wishes from other family members who couldn't be there, talking to fill the silence whilst carefully taking in all the wires, tubes & medical devices that augmented his body. The overheads monitors displayed scores and graphs which I stared at intently without any comprehension of what they were. I told him not to try and speak. There would be plenty of time for us to talk over the next couple of days as he recovered and grew stronger.

After about 15 minutes a nurse came and removed the mask. We were able to talk more but his voice was weak and the effort audible. In time he relaxed a little, though still in pain from the chest drain, and when asked by the nurse how he was feeling even whispered that "it's the worst hangover I've ever had". I did not stay long, he needed more time to recover but it was enough to be there. I was glad I'd made the choice to come because, for maybe the first time, it felt like he needed me.

I got up to leave, quietly said "love you Dad" into his ear and kissed the top of his head. He whispered "come here", so quietly in fact that I had to ask him to repeat it and leant over him, just inches from his face. Then, for the first time in my adult life, he kissed me on the cheek and we both smiled.