And then my Burger Dropped…

It hadn’t been the usual Mother’s Day. I wasn’t hung over and I’d gone to great lengths to organise a surprise that I thought would be good enough for my mum. Plans had begun the day before with cupcake baking followed by standard bowl licking, and an email sent to her with a list of instructions.

On Sunday morning, I’d donned an apron and flour was flying. Date scones were in the oven, the passionfruit cupcakes were frosted with white chocolate buttercream and the club sandwiches were being layered. And then the phone rang…

I cursed under my breath as I was running behind schedule and when I answered, it was my aunt calling from an ambulance with my dad as the passenger. “Don’t worry” and “Everything will be fine” were the catch phrases, as Dad was on his first hospital trip just to sort out all of his cancer meds.

Panic peppered through my chest and the cortisol danced through my veins. I explained that I was making Mum a surprise high tea lunch to which came a “Don’t rush”. I cut the club sandwiches and the triangles were misshapen; a taunting range from big and squashed to falling apart isosceles. My flatmate helped me chuck everything in a basket and I left for Mum’s. She thought that she was being held hostage as I’d instructed her via text to leave the front door open, sit in her room with the curtains and door closed and to follow the email instructions which were primarily to watch a series of crazy cat videos.

Once the cream was whipped and the table set, I sent her a text to be released. The surprise was met with great smiles, but she saw the cracks through the mask.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing… just open your present first.”
The façade faded before she had taken her first bite of the awkward looking sandwich. We ate in silence trying to recover some kind of cheer, and then I packed my aunt a lunchbox and left for A&E.

Last weekend Dad had turned, like the autumn leaves in the trees around him his home. Now he was propped up in a hospital bed, agitated and undone. He told me that I was “Busy”. To which I replied “Don’t worry, it’s Sunday”. With all the time in the world, I sat next to him; drinking water from a polystyrene cup and sharing jam and whipped cream scones with aunty. He gripped his hands firmly around the bedside frames and tried to pull away the line into his arm.

“It’s ok, we are just here to sort out your medication and get you rehydrated, then you can come back home”, my aunty said in a voice so warm and reassuring, like a child’s comforting blankie.

Severely dehydrated and with a suspected infection, we left him that evening tucked up in a ward bed in the company of a bearded amputee, a knee surgery man and an elderly gentlemen that was determined to remain independent. He had a hot meal in front of him that he was making an effort to eat as we said goodbye, but I wasn’t sure if he was really aware that we were going. I dropped my aunty back to her place and salivated at the prospect of having a fresh fish burger for dinner from my local fish n chip shop. I ordered it and took it home.

Parked in the garage, I opened the door and got out with my dinner in hand. The burger box took air with the movement and slid off the top of the newspaper wrapped chips and landed split in two parts on the cold floor. I looked down at it, shook my head and sighed loudly, before reassembling it back in its box. I was determined not to cry and thought that this was not going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I refused to give this burger that I had craved so much, any smug satisfaction. Then I took my garage seasoned burger inside and ate the damn thing.

Dad never did come back home. The suspected infection was actually his liver shutting down. His life was rapidly drawing its curtains to a close with just one small bite left. He was here, but not really, for two more days. Sitting by his bedside, my cousin and I waited for Mum to bring his sister and my brother through the foggy night, from the airport. Twenty minutes after they held Dad’s hands, he went quiet and drew his last breath.

My burger dropped… and I left it there.

About stuffnjsays

I'm NJ, and my life motto is to maintain happiness and be true to myself. I love to write, travel, laugh out loud, and be awesome! I believe in making my dreams come true, and using my life experiences to help other people. Check out what I'm up to, here:
This entry was posted in cancer, family and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to And then my Burger Dropped…

  1. Anne Berben says:

    My condolences to you. It had crossed my mind something was up as you hadn’t written a post for a while. We never know what’s around the corner and just as well as this is how’s its surposed to be for us. Take care xxxxxxx

  2. Maraea Brodrick says:

    I love reading your writing NJ…I love the way you use words…they make me feel happy even though they maybe about a sad topic (if that makes sense). Thank you.

  3. Amy Chiles says:

    Oh Honey! I really enjoy your writing style too. Glad you are back in the land of Blog. 🙂 I missed ya
    xx Amy

  4. Sophie Slim says:

    Oh NJ, I’m so sorry to hear of your fathers passing 😥

  5. Miriam says:

    NJ thinking of you xxxx

  6. thismumrocks says:

    Whoa, rewind 2 years and that was our family. Totally get the who ” He was here, but not really, for 2 more days” I hope you had all the support you needed in those last weeks from friends, family and surrounding support networks, and in the weeks ahead. Our own “non-compliant palliative care patient” lasted months longer than the medical professionals predicted. They didnt count on his strong heart & desire to “do it my way” Take care NJ

    • stuffnjsays says:

      Your patient scenario sounds very familiar. Dad went downhill very quick and the only palliative care that was in place were those two days in hospital with continuous help from the lovely nurses.

  7. Tartankiwi says:

    Sending a huge hug. All the best.
    J x

Take your shoes off, have a cuppa tea & leave your comment here:

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s