I’m sitting in A&E with my 94-year old father. It’s Sunday morning and we should be at church. Dad arrived via ambulance through the green fields on the approach to Ipswich on a bright, clear, sunny day, the endless Suffolk sky washed clean by rain storms overnight.
He’s lying on a hospital bed hooked up to monitors. A beep escapes the machine every 5 seconds or so. Dad turns his head. “You’ve got perfect pitch, haven’t you Ruth?” he asks. I haven’t, but sometimes it’s easier to agree. I’m the only other member of the family who can read music, so that probably counts.
“What’s that note, would you say?” he asks. Dad’s been playing the piano since he was 2 and only retired as a church organist last January. It’s November now.
I listen intently. “E sharp?” Dad’s not sure. I watch as his face takes on a faraway look. “Have you got my denture?” He’s asked me four times now. I reassure him. His face clears. “C sharp. Yes, that’s what it is.”
This is a straight repeat of what was happening last November, except then it was a different hospital and a different parent. I’m a pro now. It wasn’t that long ago that I was fielding questions from three children while I tried to cook tea and break up fights about who said what to who and whose turn it was to sit at the tap end of the bath. Now I’m being bombarded with questions by my father, who has been in brilliant health all his life and has only been felled by palpitations and breathlessness in the last few weeks.
Perched on a chair drinking a cup of tea, my mind is in its usual state of extreme activity. If you unscrewed the top of my head and peered in, you’d see thoughts, memories, half-written articles and chunks of stories and poems whirling around. This morning is no exception. I make a mental note of our conversation about the exact pitch of the machine. I know it will be forming part of an article at some point.
Anyone else in my situation might be running to the loo to have a private cry, then coming back with a brave smile to carry on the reassurance; updating Facebook so that friends know what’s going on; using this time to have a profound conversation, before it’s too late.
Not me.
I called the ambulance. I will make completely sure that Dad gets what he needs. I’ve already organised for Mum to come and live with us while he’s in hospital. I am being a good daughter. Since my parents moved up to live near us, this is a phrase I’ve heard a lot. People keep saying it, so I suppose it must be true.
I’ve kept my innermost emotions and feelings carefully locked away for as long as I can remember. That’s always been the safest course of action. During that time, I’ve become a writer who produces work from the head, good work which touches people and does what it’s supposed to do. I even get paid for it (excellent). But recently, something else has happened. I’ve started to write from the heart and the world has not stopped turning. People are still talking to me. It feels good although a bit scary.
In the last few weeks, I’ve realised that what I’ve often said in the past is entirely true. Life is copy. Everything that’s happened to me, good and bad, every disappointment, betrayal, loss, every joy, achievement, realisation has dropped down into my heart, quietly mulching down and waiting for me to release the catch on the door.
The single, repeated note in the hospital. The tired faces of the staff. The reassuring hand of the GP on my father’s shoulder a couple of weeks before. The pale, set face of a mother holding her unconscious daughter’s hand in the next bay. All this is copy. All this is released by the simple act of sitting down and starting to type, by allowing those long-protected feelings to see the light of day.
And there is nothing I’d rather be doing than this.