PASSING

Content warnings: Hospitals, Sickness, Rugby

England v Italy. England looking for a four-try bonus point to have a shot at the Six Nations Championship. Just five minutes in, and England are playing a fast, passing game. Farrell bursts through the Italian line and picks out Ben Youngs on the inside who takes it at speed and is over for a try in his 100th game for England. “Perfect start!” says the commentator. Italy 0; England 7.

“Perfect start!” says Dad. I lean over his hospital bed, adjust the small screen and turn the volume up a touch. He’s been here since I brought him in after a consultation with the heart failure nurse (What a job title!). The pills he’s taking to get the excess fluid off his lungs aren’t working and he’s here so they can give him the same drug intravenously. I’m worried that he doesn’t seem to have improved since Tuesday; if anything his breathing is more laboured, his periods of lucidity shorter.

Vunipola is piling on the pressure. His aggression earns a penalty and Farrell slots it. Italy 0; England 10. 

Dad misses the points. He’s asleep, so I watch him for a while. Poor man. When he broke his hip in June, he fought so hard to get better, but his dodgy heart, strained by the operation, kept him in bed for two months. Not enough energy to do the exercises, continence problems from having had a catheter in for too long, no feeling in his hands. It’s been one attack on his dignity after another. For the last few weeks, the journey from his chair to the bathroom has tired him too much for him to do anything else.

The excitable Kyle Synkler tries a hero flap pass and gives the ball away to Italy. Dickhead! Palledri, the Italian No 8 evades Slade’s outstretched arms and is over in the corner. Good try. Italy 5; England 10. 

Dad wakes up long enough to ask me if I’ve paid the care home bills for Mum. I tell him (for the 100th time) that it’s on a standing order from the money he set aside in her account. He slips away again.

Bad tackle. Johnny Hill hits the Italian while he’s in the air. Lots of ref chat and he’s off for 10 minutes with a yellow card. Hmmm. England slow it down for a while, but Italy want points while England only have 14 men on the pitch.

He deserved better than this. Nearly 40 years serving his country, wonderful father to three kids, even more wonderful grandfather to four and, for the last 3 years, full time carer for my mum. Now she’s in a home, he should be enjoying the years left to him, spending time with friends, pottering in his little garden; relaxing after all that time dealing with her Alzheimer’s. That’s how it should have been for him, not this relentless, energy sapping decline.

I let my hand rest on his arm and he smiles up at me before getting an attack of coughing.

Italy drive over the English line, but a defender gets under the ball and prevents the try. Great scrum by England; the ball pops out and they escape.  Half time. Still Italy 5; England 10. Coach Eddie George will want more in the second half. 

The Filipina senior nurse comes in. She’s worried, like me, that the drug isn’t working. They want to put in a new cannula and syringe pump. He’ll need to pee a lot if it works, so they want to put a drain in. Dad isn’t happy:

“Going to the loo is the only exercise I get!” he complains, “How am I going to get back to normal if I never get out of bed?”

I love him so much. He’s lying there, all protruding bones and bruised skin, tubes everywhere and fighting for his life, but still looking forwards. He’s asked three times if I managed to get the MOT done on his car, still imagining a time when he’ll be picking Mum up from her home for a trip to the lake. I eventually get him to acquiesce and I leave the room so he can be in private while they sort him out.

It’s half an hour before I’m allowed back, as they’ve had a lot of trouble getting the cannula in. Dad’s dozed off, worn out by all the medical attention.

Jones obviously gave England a rocket at half time and they’ve been busy. Ben Youngs has scored again and I get back just in time to see a great forward try. Italy 5, England 24. Later, Italy are awarded a penalty as Johnny May holds on to the ball in a tackle. 

“Where’s the ref from?” asks Dad suspiciously, back with me for a while.

“He’s French,” I say, and he tuts.

“Typical French,” he says, part joking, part replaying an ancient grudge. He could always be grumpy about certain things.  He’s spent so much time in that small house with my Mum, their chairs just a few feet apart; telling her the same thing over and over again; trying to explain to her in June why it’s not Christmas; dealing with her anxiety just as he dealt with her incontinence, with a mix of loving care and suppressed frustration. It must have been so hard.

The Filipina nurse comes in to check on the new cannula. I’m well over 3 hours into what’s normally a strictly enforced one-hour visit and no-one is moving me on. A small voice in the back of my mind wonders why.

Patient, attacking play by England. Tom Curry from the base of the ruck. Try! England are over the finish line, capturing the bonus point with 15 minutes to spare. Italy 5. England 29.

It’s hard to watch him. His breathing is so shallow, conversation so difficult. But, he keeps at it and asks about my boys: what’s happening in their young lives, concerned how the new lockdown will affect them. A few words at a time, he talks politics and the pandemic, mind still whirring away behind all the fog.

When it’s time to leave, he insists I should stay with my brother rather than drive the 120 miles home in the rain, his concern for me rather than for himself. Just as it always, always was. I pause at the door, looking back at him, wrestling with the unwelcome thought that, if this new cannula doesn’t get the medicine into him, if the fluid on his lungs doesn’t drain, he isn’t going to be able to go on much longer. Not like this.

I wave to him one last time, put my Covid mask on and head down the long hospital corridor, smiling at the Filipina nurse on the way out.

 

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Post script. The drugs didn’t work. Less than 36 hours after I left, he had passed away. I was so glad I had that last visit. Glad too that my brother got to spend time with him on Sunday.

Post post script. The Filipina nurse was the one who called me at 6am Monday morning. Her name, she told me, is Goodness.

Post post post script. England’s 34 to 5 victory was enough, leaving Ireland too high a mountain to climb in Paris. A Six Nations Championship win suggests the start of a rebuild after a bad loss in that momentous World Cup Final. Lots to look forward to, with the exciting new players in the team. Yes. Lots to look forward to.