Lungs

'I could have kissed the man, I'm telling you,' Dad tells me on his mobile phone, calling me from his bedside. 'I'm just getting my things together.'
He's been discharged from the hospital. This is unexpected - they told us we'd have to wait until Monday, soonest. But the doctor has passed by on his rounds and become our new hero. I can hear the energy in Dad's voice. No pointless wait on the silent ward of Bay 2 men, no more having to endure the thick, dry cakes of mashed potato, the neglect, the lack of eye contact. I drive along the banks of the churning Thames, just arrived in London, and I am lifted, elated by the news. I pull in to make some calls, unable to concentrate on driving and speaking at the same time. This is a momentous win. Such small victories are, I guess, what will shape our landscape in the coming weeks and months.
I call Dad the following day and hear the plump, confident sounds of jazz playing in the background.
'I need to take a day off from it all,' Dad says and I wonder how to find the balance between giving him space and meeting his needs. My brother tells me not to nag. I picture Dad propped up on the sofa, surrounded by music and blankets and - perhaps - memories. 'It's Radio 3 - a very interesting show,' he tells me, still sounding like his mouth is stuffed with cotton wool.
The family lungs collectively exhale as we welcome this stoppage time. I step like a stranger back into my own life. It's only been a fortnight but it feels like time's collapsed and I've been knocked over by a very large iron block, storeys high, swinging on a cartoon rope. I catch myself staring at nothing and feel guilty for not being more efficient and strong, a mighty planner of care and support.
I am surrounded by the love of friends. I sleep well cradled in M's arms, then fitfully in a cold bed as I'm visited by terrors that startle me awake. Can I hold his hand when he's sick in a bucket? Can I help him to sit up and eat when all he wants to do is lie and sleep? Can I wash him when he can no longer wash himself? Can I talk to him about funerals and coffins, hospices and the arrangement of his affairs? Can I really help him die?