He is the candle – by Lucy Norton
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I am lying on a grey-blue vinyl couch in the ICU visitor’s room. I wonder why they don’t have rooms with beds for family members awaiting the inevitable. It is difficult to think of sleeping, but I am so tired. An hour ago, my sister Jessie and I scurried out of the hospital entrance with two hand-rolled joints like a couple of sneaky teenagers. We smoked in the bushes beside the stairs. It was well past midnight, but the fluorescent lights could’ve fooled you.
‘What if someone catches us?’ Jessie asked me earnestly.
‘Our dad is dying, so I literally wouldn’t give a fuck. Plus, it’s medicinal.’ I am detached from the prospect of punishment. If I’m being really honest with myself, there is something comforting about maintaining an illusion of autonomy in a situation where you have none.
We have pizza delivered to the hospital. Uber Eats will deliver anywhere, even to this temple of mortal aching.
‘This is…disgusting,’ our mother remarks through bites and chews. She’s an acclaimed food critic in her head and, much to our dismay, very open about it. We roll our eyes in collective solidarity that she could be complaining about the food at a time like this. But we’re all looking for ways to have some kind of power. Mum, for example, has changed her hairstyle more than twice today. It’s in two plaits now. She braids her hair when she’s not feeling the best. Mum has often told me our people braid their hair for many reasons, particularly for spiritual protection, for strength. I notice she has put some lippy on, too. By contrast, I am wearing the same clothes I was trying to fall asleep in when Dad called us and through spurts of coughing told us he was going to die soon. These clothes have been through a couple of taxi rides, an interstate flight and a whole lot of existential despair since.
‘What do you expect, woman? Nothing would taste good right now.’ Jessie makes a good point. She’s always been very logical, even in times of turmoil. She’s retrieved Spike from mum and he’s asleep on her lap now, milk drunk after feeding. Dad was not lucid when we arrived, but the sound of Spike’s baby babble energised him so much that he sat up to say hello. For a split second we thought he’d come good and would be able to yarn, but no such luck. I often think being a grandfather was the highlight of his life. I’d never seen him smile so much. He fell back asleep after greeting Spike and blowing him a few kisses.
My brother William is shovelling poorly cut triangles of pizza into his open mouth with a distant look in his eyes. This is particularly hard for him, but we’ve grown apart lately, and I’m not sure what to say. I try to place my hand on his as a gesture of comfort, or camaraderie, or something. He whisks his hand away and keeps eating.
This has been the longest evening of my life. I’m a little sleepy now, though, which is how I have ended up on the vinyl couch. My yawning was like a song that Mum couldn’t stand, and she heralded me into the visitor’s room with a scratchy patient blanket.
She covered me with the blanket and crouched beside me. ‘I’ll wake you if anything happens.’
I watched her walk out the room. She hasn’t slept, and I know she won’t. I forgot to ask her to turn out the light. A passing nurse has read my mind. I’m the only one in here, and the TV is now a nice dull glow to fall asleep to. There is no sound coming out. I smile a little at the kind gesture the nurse has probably performed a thousand times in this liminal space of waiting, and waiting, of sleep and no rest. I think she feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for her, having to deal with this much death and grief. Must be hard, I think to myself as I slowly drift off.
*
‘Sis! Now! Let’s go!’
My body shoots up from its slumber and William is standing in front of me. He has his shoes half on, and I realise he might’ve been sleeping too. ‘Mum said it’s happening.’
He begins to run and I am following hastily in each of his footsteps, half asleep, heart racing, dodging cleaning carts and nurses like we’re on an obscure obstacle course. My shoelaces are untied and I nearly trip over, but William holds out his arm to prevent my falling. This feels like a cartoon. Why is this ICU so fucking big? We are both running so fast we nearly miss his room.
The door makes a slight creak as it opens.
Jessie and Mum are by his bed.
Spike is asleep in the pram.
William and I are catching our breath in the doorway.
The only light in the room is gently illuminating the bed, his face. Oh, his face, subtle like a sleeping child’s. I have never seen him look so soft. It feels like I’ve stepped into a cavern of timelessness. All around us is darkness, and he is the candle. We might be hovering. It could be a dream.
There is the rattle the nurses tell you about, emanating from deep within his chest. I thought it would sound like a baby’s toy, but it is quieter, softer. Like the sound of a bird wing fluttering as it escapes the cavity of his body. We are suspended in this place. Something sacred is happening. I place his hand in mine and it twitches. I squeeze back. He is well past talking at this point, but I could swear he was communicating with me. I am thinking of every time in my life he has squeezed my hand and these moments flash like vignettes across the sky of my mind. To wish me good luck on an exam, upon departure at an airport, when warning me of danger, saying goodnight as he tucks me in.
I am five and twelve and twenty and now, all at once. The timelines melt into one another and our voices ripple across space. I can see them physically in the air around me. I am trying to remember the last thing he said but time is a river and I am drifting further away from land.
I find myself in a little dinghy that is slowly rocking from side to side. I feel like a baby in a cradle. The river below me is iridescent and swirls form like whirlpools. Instinctively, I reach out my hand to touch one of them and I feel the boat drift until it softly touches the shore. Everything goes blank for a moment, as if I were blinking.
When my eyes open, I am standing in the bush. The familiar buzz of insects and birdsong surrounds me. This is Country I have walked countless times before, and a sense of familiarity grounds me. The same old gum trees swaying in the breeze, their leaves murmuring in greeting. The same banksias glowing in the early morning sun, casting soft shadows that dance across the ground.
For a moment I forget what has happened. I have forgotten time altogether, standing in this sacred place. At the edge of my vision I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure, Dad stands further along the track. His presence is like a beacon, warm and reassuring. The soft morning light halos his form and I walk towards him, as if drawn by a gravitational force.
When I reach him, his arms envelop me in a familiar embrace. I am grounded in the warmth of this moment, which echoes the memory of so many before us. He holds me tightly, and the gentle pulse of his heartbeat resonates in my ears as the world around us becomes still. The sun is shining on us both, it’s warm and soothing.
In the distance I hear the faint beeping of a machine, blending with the morning mist. We walk together along the trail, our steps slow and deliberate. Though I don’t want to say goodbye, I know this is it. I turn my face towards him and he is glowing like he always has. This is the last time I’ll see him smiling, walking, shielding his eyes from the sun. His comforting energy settles me, and in this place I begin to trust what is unfolding.
The Country around us begins to blur, as if time and space are beginning to dissolve. Dad’s smile lingers on his face, wrinkles forming around his mouth. I sense our time together gently drawing to a close. The path ahead is too bright for me to see.
I give him one last hug, the shoulder of his flannelette shirt soaking up my tears. The birds sing around us in unison; magpie, black cockatoo, kookaburra, forming a grand symphony. I feel the tug of reality pulling me back, separating us. I watch him drift away, blurring into the distance until everything goes white.
In what feels like seconds and the flutter of my eyelids, I’m back in his hospital room. No time has passed since I left, and I’m listening to the rattle again. This moment feels like hours, like days, like moments, like seconds. I give up conceptualising time. Instead, I choose to just listen. I previously imagined laboured breathing, gasping, but this is tender. The prolonged release of each exhale, slower each time. I notice the space between them growing. There is spaciousness everywhere now. There are tears welling up in my eyes like little pools and I look up. My family’s faces are so kind at this moment and our glances toward each other are so generous.
His hand is still clasped to mine. I tell him, ‘It’s okay’. Tears are streaming down my cheeks like rain on a car window. ‘You can let go. I love you. We love you.’
‘We love you so much, Davey.’ Mum is caressing his arm. His skin is losing colour.
‘We love you so much. We love you so, so much.’ Jessie is trying to smile through tears. Spike is cooing in her arms. William’s eyes glow when he looks at me.
There is so much love alive in here, it has created a portal.
He lets go of my hand and I feel him leave the room.
The sun is beginning to rise as the taxi pulls up outside. We begin driving away and I look through the back window as the hospital and the sunrise drift into the distance like a mirage.
It is beautiful. It must be for him.
I buckle in and place my warm cheek on the cool window, it stings a little.
I almost forgot it was winter in there.
I almost forgot it was earth out here.
I almost forgot there are lives out here.
That I am one of them.
That he is not.
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Image: Peter Ostergaard - Flickr
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