It took me a long while to decide if I was going to include the passing of my poppy in Lily’s story, but truly, it would be incomplete without it. It has also taken me a long while to decide what to say about it. I tend to prefer to be very clinical in my approach to public expression of grief. It works better for me. So excuse me if you feel I’m being cold or unfeeling. I assure you that I feel it just as acutely as you would in the same situation.
By Easter of 2009 it became clear that Poppy’s pancreatic cancer was getting the better of him. While before, his pain had been manageable and he had looked reasonably well, he was now very thin and often clearly in pain. It was also Easter that Bob and I moved out of our rented apartment in Kelvin Grove and into Grandma and Poppy’s house to remove the financial burden of renting and building.
At the end of April, I woke in the early hours of the morning. I can’t say what woke me, but something felt very wrong. I went to check on Poppy and he was not there. Neither was Grandma. Frantic, I was still sure that I would have heard an ambulance had it come to the house or that Grandma would have roused me had it been a dire emergency. I rang her over and over, trying to find out what was wrong, but she did not answer. At about 5 o’clock, Grandma FINALLY returned my calls, explaining that Poppy had been attempting to manage his pain with pain killers that were far too weak, and that morning it had gotten the better of him. Grandma had taken him to the PA Hospital, where they had brought the pain under control and provided him with much stronger pain killers. Otherwise, he was in the best of health for a terminal cancer patient.
Exhausted, I decided to take the day off, and went back to bed after they returned home. At about lunch time, the phone rang. It was Grandma. Poppy had been in a car accident and she needed help getting him out of the car. Feeling very stupid, I wandered down stairs, still wondering if I had heard her incorrectly. Sure enough, Poppy had been in a car accident and he was very confused. We couldn’t lift him out or Grandma’s car and he seemed unable to cooperate. I fetched him his cigarettes and his transistor radio (it was a wonder it hadn’t been with him) and when I walked up to him I held up the cigarettes for him to see. He asked me if I had brought down his cigarettes. Astonished, I REALLY looked at him. Having before only taken in how grey his face was, I had missed the slackened left eye and side of his mouth. He had had a stroke.
I immediately rang an ambulance, which was forever in coming. Long minutes seemed like hours (Here, I am going to mention that this was what always made me furious about the sobbing, whining women, both male and female, who would call ambulances for sprained ankles at the netball centre. Ambulances are for emergencies, not your barely in pain, attention seeking self). In the end, FORTY minutes later, I rang the ambulance back, cancelled it and we drove Poppy the 5 minutes to Greenslopes Private Hospital. The same hospital Poppy had decided would be his last destination.
At the hospital, he became furious with us for not parking in the emergency entrance, even though we were parked right next to the sign.
The wait in emergency was long, and we often had to remind nurses and doctors to give poppy drinks, pain killers and to take him to the toilet. With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I can now say we should have bailed then. But we were worried and that is where Poppy wanted to be.
It was 8:00pm before he was settled into room, dosed up on all his medications and in a position where Grandma felt she could leave him.
The next morning, Grandma arrived at the hospital to find that Poppy had been left all night with no nurses’ attention, even though it was in his chart to have frequent pain killers. He had been calling out all night, in pain, desperately thirsty and needing the bathroom but unable to get up to get help. When Grandma questioned why, they said he had not pressed his buzzer. They had left the buzzer right next to his stroke blinded eye, meaning even if he could see it, he couldn’t have picked it up. The next night he was moved right next to the nurses’ station and it was better, but not good and we arranged to have him moved to Mt Olivet as soon as possible, which meant one more night in at Greenslopes.
That day, I took him for a cigarette. He is fairly lucid, and explains to me that he doesn’t want to die, that nobody really wants to die, but that is the lot he has been given and he has accepted it. I feel sad, but say something inane and positive.
That night was the worst. Poppy was now mobile and was enjoying his cigarettes fairly regularly and sometime in the wee hours of the morning he had decided he NEEDED ONE NOW. He went to the nurses’ station to get them to ring Grandma. A mixture of strong pain killers and the stroke made him unable to communicate correctly and when he asked for Grandma, and they refused (it was about 2 am), he became aggressive. It should be noted, this was a stroke victim, dying of cancer, who weighed MAYBE 60kg ringing wet, a 10 year old could have beaten him in a fight. And rather than call Grandma THEY CALLED SECURITY. I bet the 100kg +, 6 foot Maori dude felt tough menacing my pop. In the end, they called my Grandma, who figured out what he wanted simply by taking the time to observe and noticed the lighter in his hand.
The next afternoon, he was pleased to be moved to Mt Olivet, which before he had dreaded because of its “final port of call” connotations. Let me tell you, if you have no better prognosis, go to Mt Olivet, it is beautiful. It smells of fresh flowers, because that is what it is decorated with, the beds are covered in homey, handmade quilts and the food is all lovingly handmade and delicious. The nurses are gorgeous; cheery, friendly and patient. They don’t mind making 2 am cigarette calls!
So we come to Poppy’s last week. At first, nobody knows this, except maybe Poppy. He is eating something, drinking coke and water, taking his medications and enjoying his cigarette journeys to the lovely gardens. The doctors feel if they find the cause of the stroke, they can manage it and he can come home under palliative care. The pancreatic cancer is there and aggressive, but it will still be a few more months before it takes its final toll. He is scheduled for a cat scan the following Tuesday and in the meantime is doing daily occupational therapy. But each day is worse. He eats less, and drinks more coke instead, he is smoking less and lasting a shorter amount of time out of bed. Around Wednesday, he starts to refuse his medications except for pain killers. The nurses know this means he is coming to the end, but we think he is just being stubborn.
He mentions to me that he just wishes his brain wasn’t so fuzzy, that he wishes he could communicate properly and remember what was going as his short term memory is shot to pieces form the stroke.
On Thursday, I buy him some cigars he wants, but don’t take them up. He rings in tears shortly after dinner, and I feel horrible. We rush them up, and he is happy, he even enjoys a coke!
The next afternoon, I am scheduled to go to Sydney to visit family, but I feel very uncomfortable. What happens if he can’t remember I’ve gone, and calls Grandma in tears again? Even worse, what happens if he dies, and I’m not there?
But family and friends reassure me, Grandma and Poppy reassure me, and I decide not to change my plans. Before I leave, I want to say, “Don’t you die on me, I’ll be back Monday, you wait that long, if you’ve got to go.” But I don’t.
On Sunday night, Mum rings me, telling me that Poppy is dying. I don’t believe her, and ring the nurse at Mt Olivet and she tells me to come home. But I won’t make the last flight thanks to Sydney’s curfew rules. We try to make the 6:00am flight, but miss the ticket cut off by minutes. As we walk through the baggage check to the lounge, my phone rings. It is Grandma and Poppy has just passed away.
It feels like someone has grabbed me by the head, arms and legs and pulled with all their might until I’ve torn into five pieces and the centre of these pieces is my heart. It hurts the same as any physical pain, and for a moment I think I might die, and then I cry instead. All this takes a split second.
When we finally arrive at the hospital, he’s laid out cleanly and beautifully. Bob says his goodbyes, and then leaves me to say mine. I kiss him and cuddle him and say over and over that I love him and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for him. But he is not my poppy. He is hard and cold and gone. I don’t remember him like this, ever.
I wanted to say more, but that is all I can say.
Rest in Peace, Captain Kenneth John Barnett, 24 December 1943 – 4 May 2009.
