sick. It was Mum and Dad all over again.
Speaking of Dad, he wasn’t quite himself. Every time I saw him, which wasn’t that often, he seemed to be complaining about a bad back. I don’t remember him being particularly active but suddenly he was coming straight in from work and collapsing onto the sofa. Even that seemed to cause discomfort after a while. One day I came downstairs and he’d moved onto the floor. It wasn’t the biggest front room in the world and he took up most of the space. I didn’t know anything about bad backs but I thought he should see a doctor.
‘It’s just a bad back,’ he insisted. ‘A bit of rest and I’ll be right as rain.’
Day after day, week after week, this went on. Whenever I was in the house he’d be stretched out on the floor, writhing around.
‘I’ll be all right when I get comfortable.’
He didn’t look all right, though. And he didn’t sound it.
Then things started getting weird.
I got home one day as Nan was cooking dinner. Dad was already on the floor in the front room. He hadn’t been to work for weeks. I stuck my head around the door to say hello but all he could say was, ‘Shut the door, for God’s sake! I can’t stand the smell.’
What smell? The only aroma in the house was food – onions and mince at a guess. But I didn’t question. I pulled the door closed and went upstairs.
Dad didn’t join us to eat.
‘He’s not up to it,’ Mum said.
I could work out that for myself. The sounds through the thin partition wall were awful. One moment Dad was shouting at himself because he couldn’t get comfortable. Then he was swearing at the foul smells seeping into the lounge. Poor Nan, having to listen to her food compared to everything from rotting veg to blocked drains to dog mess.
‘Well, I like the smell, Nan,’ I said, although I didn’t seem to eat anything as usual before finding myself in bed.
The next night was the same. By the end of the week Dad was shouting from the moment I got up until the time I went to bed. Always about the food. Always about the vile stench. If anyone dared open the front room door while there was any vegetable preparation going on, you soon closed it again. Any conversation at breakfast was drowned out by his ranting. Same with dinner. At the weekend it was easier to just stay out for most of the day.
But still he just said it was a bad back.
‘Leave me alone. I know my body. I just need a rest!’
Eventually he gave in and a doctor was allowed in to see him. Dad told him the same story. It was just his back. He just needed some peace and quiet – ‘although chance would be a fine thing in this house.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ the doctor said.
I don’t know what went on in that room but after ten minutes the doctor was on the phone ordering an ambulance.
‘What’s the problem?’ Mum asked him.
‘Your husband’s got extremely low blood pressure. He needs hospital treatment. Urgently.’
I don’t remember Dad being carried into the ambulance or whether Mum went with him. But I do recall sitting down for mealtimes was enjoyable again without the soundtrack of his abuse.
Mum went to the hospital at some point and Dad revealed he had a stomach ulcer. That was why his back was hurting. It also explained why eating was a complete no-no, and how even the smell of food set him off.
‘They’re going to operate and then I’ll be fine.’
Mum was quite matter-of-fact when she relayed the details to us that night. I don’t remember visiting Dad. Weirdly, a school friend was admitted to the same hospital for appendicitis and I did go to take her a bunch of grapes. Half the class was there whenever I went. I recall seeing her and later standing outside Dad’s ward. But I don’t remember going in. Just standing there, wondering where I was, then going home again.
Mum went in after the operation. Dad was asleep in his bed so she went to speak to the consultant.
‘Is everything all right?’
Speaking of Dad, he wasn’t quite himself. Every time I saw him, which wasn’t that often, he seemed to be complaining about a bad back. I don’t remember him being particularly active but suddenly he was coming straight in from work and collapsing onto the sofa. Even that seemed to cause discomfort after a while. One day I came downstairs and he’d moved onto the floor. It wasn’t the biggest front room in the world and he took up most of the space. I didn’t know anything about bad backs but I thought he should see a doctor.
‘It’s just a bad back,’ he insisted. ‘A bit of rest and I’ll be right as rain.’
Day after day, week after week, this went on. Whenever I was in the house he’d be stretched out on the floor, writhing around.
‘I’ll be all right when I get comfortable.’
He didn’t look all right, though. And he didn’t sound it.
Then things started getting weird.
I got home one day as Nan was cooking dinner. Dad was already on the floor in the front room. He hadn’t been to work for weeks. I stuck my head around the door to say hello but all he could say was, ‘Shut the door, for God’s sake! I can’t stand the smell.’
What smell? The only aroma in the house was food – onions and mince at a guess. But I didn’t question. I pulled the door closed and went upstairs.
Dad didn’t join us to eat.
‘He’s not up to it,’ Mum said.
I could work out that for myself. The sounds through the thin partition wall were awful. One moment Dad was shouting at himself because he couldn’t get comfortable. Then he was swearing at the foul smells seeping into the lounge. Poor Nan, having to listen to her food compared to everything from rotting veg to blocked drains to dog mess.
‘Well, I like the smell, Nan,’ I said, although I didn’t seem to eat anything as usual before finding myself in bed.
The next night was the same. By the end of the week Dad was shouting from the moment I got up until the time I went to bed. Always about the food. Always about the vile stench. If anyone dared open the front room door while there was any vegetable preparation going on, you soon closed it again. Any conversation at breakfast was drowned out by his ranting. Same with dinner. At the weekend it was easier to just stay out for most of the day.
But still he just said it was a bad back.
‘Leave me alone. I know my body. I just need a rest!’
Eventually he gave in and a doctor was allowed in to see him. Dad told him the same story. It was just his back. He just needed some peace and quiet – ‘although chance would be a fine thing in this house.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ the doctor said.
I don’t know what went on in that room but after ten minutes the doctor was on the phone ordering an ambulance.
‘What’s the problem?’ Mum asked him.
‘Your husband’s got extremely low blood pressure. He needs hospital treatment. Urgently.’
I don’t remember Dad being carried into the ambulance or whether Mum went with him. But I do recall sitting down for mealtimes was enjoyable again without the soundtrack of his abuse.
Mum went to the hospital at some point and Dad revealed he had a stomach ulcer. That was why his back was hurting. It also explained why eating was a complete no-no, and how even the smell of food set him off.
‘They’re going to operate and then I’ll be fine.’
Mum was quite matter-of-fact when she relayed the details to us that night. I don’t remember visiting Dad. Weirdly, a school friend was admitted to the same hospital for appendicitis and I did go to take her a bunch of grapes. Half the class was there whenever I went. I recall seeing her and later standing outside Dad’s ward. But I don’t remember going in. Just standing there, wondering where I was, then going home again.
Mum went in after the operation. Dad was asleep in his bed so she went to speak to the consultant.
‘Is everything all right?’
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