October Boxing Day

My Dad died on 26th October, 2001. I have trouble remembering his birthday, but the date he died has been burnt into my brain. It's stupid but I think of it as ‘October Boxing Day’.

He'd been diagnosed with a melanoma under his left arm about two years earlier (and as I'm writing this I'm not even certain which arm it was – can you believe that?). It was almost certainly a recurrence of a previous melanoma that he'd had removed fourteen years earlier (five years after which he'd been given the all-clear).

He was a pharmacist like his Dad before him (but he was utterly unlike his father who forced him to follow in his footsteps, despite Dad's desire and ability to become a doctor). He had retired a year before the new diagnosis, having sold the family business for a good price. He and Mum had more than enough to live comfortably on for many years. For one year he had enjoyed reading, listening to music, and pestering his youngest son to help him get the hang of his new computer. By the end of his illness, even those simple pleasures were denied him.

He had the usual treatment in the hope of getting rid of the damned thing. Surgery to remove the tumour, excision of the surrounding lymph nodes to hopefully curb the spread of the disease, radiotherapy, and, after all that had failed, chemotherapy. One day he came home from the last of his failed treatments and said that was it – there was nothing left to do. I don't think he complained once, at least not about the cancer. He was generally a pretty quiet bloke.

One of the side effects of the lymph node removal was that fluid collected in his arm. To try and keep the arm compressed and limit the fluid retention, he was given a special shoulder-to-fingertip glove, made of thick, elasticised material. He ended up having to wear it all the time, even though it seemed to do bugger all. Towards the end, his arm and hand were almost double their normal size – hard and tight with fluid and disease. On those rare occasions when he was able to get up and walk he had to shuffle along with his arm hanging heavily by his side and his left shoulder six inches lower than the right.

One evening in late September 2001, I was playing the demo version of Soldier Of Fortune out the back of our house. Dad was in his room at the front, with Mum, presumably in bed. While I was clearing the New York subway of neo-punk terrorists, I faintly heard someone call my Mum's name. The call had come from outside the house and I assumed it was our next-door neighbour trying to catch Mum's attention (a not unusual thing to hear). Continuing with the game, I heard a second call, this one slightly louder and with a disturbing emotion to it (fear?) I leapt up from the game, panic rising in me, and went to investigate.

Dad was lying in an awkward position on the paved barbecue area at the side of the house. He had wanted to cut his toenails and, as he had always done when he was well, he’d gone outside to do it. But his new, unsteady body failed him and he had tripped trying to get out of the doorway. The weight of his left arm prevented him from getting to his feet. All he could do was call for help.

I struggled to help him up and, for the first time, felt the weight of his arm for myself. It was a useless, unyielding burden - part of him, yet strangely separate. He rested briefly (nothing was said), and when he had composed himself as best he could, I helped him back to bed. Mum worriedly started asking him if anything was broken, if anything had been damaged. "Only my dignity”, he said quietly, and started to cry. I left them together and went to make a cup of tea.

His health failed him quickly after that. He died within a month, surrounded by his wife, his youngest son and daughter-in-law, and his daughter. His eldest son had desperately tried to get there in time but distance prevented him.

Dad had just turned 58.

THEMEADOWS, October 2003

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