Doosra

My eyes scan his face , like they used to do when I was small , looking for signs….

” You look tired Dad , it’s been hard on you , these last few years , hasn’t it ? ” I sigh.

He looks diminished , his hair greyer and thinner, his eyes , a little rheumy , a lot sad.

“Yes , and , I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to accept it…” his voice trails and I put my arms around him.

Standing in the dining room, as the TV next door plays some daytime dross, to mask our hushed voices.

And so….. almost three long years since it happened and it doesn’t get easier but things become routine . And yet I still jolt-wake at night and worry where this road will lead us . Before it happened , they weren’t old , 65 and 66 , that’s not old these days, is it ? They were the new-young-old , who walked in the hills , stayed up late , drank wine and in their new, work free world , enjoyed life . And with almost 45 years together had created a symbiotic rub-along of cheerful misunderstandings . Sure , in the 70’s , when I was small , I remember the rows and stormy patches , my dad with hippy sideburns and bookish ways clashing with my mums flippancy and flightiness . But somehow they got through those times of betrayal and conflict and had settled into something that looked like old love. Or friendship . Or both.

But now , I see two shadows of former selves and it cuts me too deeply. Things have turned around . My dad has become a father again , to wash , to dress , to care , and my mother is his child . And both have aged . My mum has the meek look of the very old ; her green eyes which used to flash fantastic as she laughed through life have become those of a supplicant. Sometimes I can’t bear to look . Sometimes I leave their house and cry all the way home . And yes , I know it’s inevitable , that we all age , that time moves on regardless , but it’s the loss that she doesn’t miss , that absence of her spark ( I could almost say soul , but religion is an anathema to me ) that breaks my heart.

And through all this , my Dad has been the main ‘carer’ . Oh fuck , how many times have I heard that word bandied around ; in hospital corridors , at doctor’s appointments , on the phone sorting out wheelchairs and walking sticks . I hate the sound and feel of it. It’s small and yellow and smells of piss and antiseptic . I want to say , ” No , he’s not her fucking ‘carer’ , he’s her husband , he’s my dad , he’s a man who used to paint and write and bowl left handed . And I want to scream , “No , she’s not your fucking ‘client’ , she’s my mum , she’s his wife , and she was beautiful with green eyes and golden hair and she always made people feel better about themselves ” . But I don’t . And I look at them , those two old people , so polite and English and reserved . My Mum , simplified inside and broken without , my Dad , tired and weary , bitter and worn.

“Thanks love , I don’t know what I’d do without you”… his eyes fill up a little more.

How I wish I never had to hear those words coming from him now , like this . With a hug in the dining room as my mum watches vegetables on daytime TV .