Page 88 of You Were Always the One

‘Tired.’ He barely moves.

‘I’ll go and see if I can find one of the nurses,’ I say, to give him time to wake up properly.

The ward is quiet this morning and I find a nurse straight away.

‘He had a restless night,’ she says. ‘We’ve changed his pain relief.’

‘Is that why he’s sleepy?’ I ask.

‘It may just be that he’s tired,’ she says. ‘It could also be his illness,’ she adds gently.

I nod wordlessly. It’s to be expected with cancer, these changes that can creep up, seemingly unnoticed, while others arrive suddenly, never to leave. But as I know from my job, each case is different. ‘We were hoping he could go home today.’

She consults his notes. ‘The doctors want to keep him in another day, just to make sure his medication is right.’

Once, Miles would have kicked up no end of fuss at a decision being made for him by someone else. But when I tell him what the doctors have said, he doesn’t object.

A strange feeling hangs over me as I drive home, which isn’t helped by the overcast skies, the lack of daylight. When I get back, the house feels empty as I make myself a cup of tea. Then, sitting down, I allow myself to properly think.

I know what the facts are. That Miles isn’t coming out of this. That these, now, are his final months, if not weeks. What matters is making them as comfortable for him as I can, at the same time easing this transition for our children. But there is no easy way when a parent is dying. Because that’s what’s happening here, however much I want to tell myself otherwise.

A mix of emotions wash over me as I think about the years we’ve spent together. About the love that was there, the life we built. The way love was eroded, before we made it what it has become now: a version of friendship; a strength and solidarity between us. Given where we were, I’m proud of us.

What will we do after? I think about it only fleetingly. I think in terms of days, now.

As far ahead as tomorrow.

The following day, Miles comes home. He seems inordinately grateful as I help him inside. But one of those changes has happened. And it’s a marked one, one I should have seen coming, as he stands at the bottom of the stairs.

I see the look on his face. ‘What is it, Miles?’

‘The stairs. I don’t think…’ His voice catches.

It’s like the blood in my veins turns to ice. Then I pull myself together. ‘I’ll help you.’

Through sheer bloody-mindedness, while Miles hangs on to the banister for dear life, I try to support him as he takes one laboured step followed by another. It takes a while, but eventually we make it upstairs. How is he going to make it down again? I’m thinking but don’t say out loud.

In the spare room, Miles collapses on his bed, exhausted. I take off his shoes and pull the curtains half-closed. By the time I turn back to look at him, his eyes are closing.

‘Miles?’ I watch his eyelids flutter open. ‘I’ll come up in a bit and help you to the bathroom.’

‘Yes,’ he murmurs, his eyes already closing.

Of course, being Miles, he doesn’t wait for me to come up. An hour later, I hear a thud, before the bathroom door slams shut. I run upstairs, hoping he hasn’t fallen again, knocking on the bathroom door.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask anxiously.

‘Of course I am.’ But instead of cross, he sounds weak. ‘Leave me alone, Holly.’

Helplessness courses through me as I go to our bedroom, torn between wanting to help and respecting his dignity; waiting until I hear him open the bathroom door. It’s a situation I’ve seen many times over the years, patients in denial, hanging on to their independence, when it’s clear it isn’t sustainable. Their fear, because they know what they’re losing. It’s easier to see from the outside, but sometime over the last few days, this is what has happened to us, too. And I didn’t see it coming, because I’m too close.

When Miles comes out of the bathroom, I know I have to talk to him. Going to his bedroom, I knock and push the door open. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he looks exhausted.

‘Miles?’ I say quietly, not sure how to broach this, dreading what his reaction will be if I suggest he needs help.

But he pre-empts me. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ He pats the bed beside him. ‘Come and sit down. We need to talk.’

I see it as another manifestation of his illness that when he used to argue, suddenly he’s reasonable.