22nd October 2006 – Lionel Blair Hopefully today

I’d noticed this man for a couple of weeks. He’s very smart, very neat, early 50’s I’d reckon – but I’m really bad at judging age. His face is vaguely reminiscent of Lionel Blair. He’s very tanned and smiley but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His face is creased in the set pattern of wrinkles for a smile but he doesn’t look happy, doesn’t look like a happy person. He looks like he works in a profession where he has to be pleasant to people that he doesn’t really like, teeth bared, grin fixed and all the time murderous thoughts racing through his brain. A hairdresser, a recetptionist or an air steward. He comes to visit his mother. He comes in most days.

I spoke to Lionel today. I’d seen his name when I signed into the visitors book at 1.45 that he’d been in since 8.45. At first I thought he’d just not signed out and when I saw him I was surprised. Something must have registered on my face because when I smiled he came over and started chatting. I made a comment about the weather – usually a safe gambit – about the sunshine and coldness. He said he’d not seen much of the day. He’d been in since early that morning. “So he has been in since 8.45” I thought. He was hoping it’d be today. He was hoping there’d be news today. He was speaking like an expectant father. Like he was waiting for his wife’s labour to end. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t expecting a birth, he was expecting a death. His Mum was in her room today, and he was really hoping it’d be today. He wanted to be here when it happened. He’d been in all yesterday, finally got home at 1 in the morning – only because the sister had said she thought it’d be ok she’d last ‘til the morning. But he was hoping she’d not last much longer. “It’s so difficult isn’t it?”

I was stunned. “Yes, it is difficult”. And I realised that I could talk to this man that he’d understand, not bustle in a friendly manner, not pretend everything was ok, not patronise. But he had other things on his mind just now. He wanted to be there when his Mum died. But he took time to ask if this was my Dad, and I said it was. “He’s happy anyway, smiling away there”. Then he shoutingly asked Dad “Did you get your lunch? Nice lunch?” and Dad replied “No, thanks. I had something before I left the house”. Lionel’s eyes met mine and we exchanged a thousands thoughts “Yes, it’s difficult” we both say. He made to go, and I want to say something, something wise and sustaining and of solace. But I didn’t know what. I didn’t want to blurt out “I hope she dies soon”. So he went back to his vigil. And I was left wondering if I want to be there when Dad goes, do I want him to die with no-one there during the night all alone or do I want to be there. I was surprised when I realised I do want to be there, I don’t want him to die alone, I want to be there and hold his hand and help him.