The Man

It was a routine visit to the doctors with some vague pain in his lung he thought little of but mentioned, why not, and they referred him for an MRI scan. That was a few days later when they found spots on his brain and it turned out the brain cancer had started in his stomach, was in his lungs, and basically all over and untreatable, inoperable and routine became calamity and oncoming death; a man, a dad who walked into his doctor’s as young as he ever was walked out as good as dead.

 

Thereafter Ronald Fegel spent two weeks at home with his son crying and trying to enjoy himself, and he smiled and cried and tried to make the most of it, with no clear-cut date, but soon, scared to sleep so didn’t and couldn’t anyway, his appetite gone and his son watched his dad waste away and smiled and cried, he laughed and talked of old times while trying to create new memories as quickly as possible, hundreds of photos were taken, a lifetime of advice was given, and they screamed and cried a thousand times, tried to be strong and weakened. Apologies were made and misdeeds immediately forgiven as his weight dropped and his bones came through and the day got closer, the days got shorter and thinner and more terrible to bear but urgent and time came at them. They spoke of it then didn’t. When they started they couldn’t stop until they eventually did and they were too exhausted, staring anywhere just as empty, and his son often felt like dying himself when after two weeks his dad was admitted to hospital a quarter of a man or less but hanging in, stoically, pathetically, where his son visited all day through the night forgetting every other aspect of his life, regretting and cherishing in turn each piece of history fulfilled and unfulfilled in and not in his father’s presence, holding his hand for periods of time, knowing this was the closest they’d been to anyone, unable to look each other in the eyes without breaking down but looking all the same, looking at a wall of future and him strong through everything, taking it on as it ravaged him, chewed him to bones, eyeballing the menacing b***h till the end: ‘Leave my pride, take my freedom’, he seemed to be saying in a last futile dignity.

 

“Where’s the nurse?”

“She’ll be back any minute.”

“Okay. I thought I might see her.”

“You will.”

“I know.”

“It’s gonna be alright, son. Promise you. I promise, okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you, dad.” He had never said it, always felt it, always, never said.

“I love you too, son. I love you.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I’m just disappearing. I’m going inside now. Inside.”

“You’ll be here with me, in here, that’s what matters.”

 

They were non-believers and Darren Fegel’s dad died forever later that night while Darren smoked, chose his moment, wishing to avoid the heaviness, waited then quietly perished. Darren returning to the ward knowing his dad’s favour, smiled before alerting nursing staff, before finally losing him, before leaving for good, before crumpling to tears.

 

He went to phone his girlfriend and then didn’t. He wanted to be alone but didn’t, knew he needed someone but knew they wouldn’t suffice and it would irritate as much as console him, but knew to be alone was an isolation too far under the circumstances, though couldn’t risk and drove alone in a nightmare he kept on remembering was a reality, as if the news was coming fresh with each second, like his mind was trying and failing to repress it all and it just kept coming, the wheels turning, he inched towards his destination by each lengthened metre of land and then turned off to drive a greater distance further from it but carried it all with him; the speed, the distance, the darkness of the night were nothing, incidental, but no tears now just blank recollection and a focus down the tunnel of lights narrowing in the distance to a point, a destination where the lights met that was never again to come, to take him home. Arriving at some place he lived, newly unfamiliar and haunting, through the door into the space with the screams of first man, of death, of birth that knew no safe way out, and then silence. He thought to phone his friend and didn’t, held his head then didn’t, wrung his hands, sat then stood, stood in a room of nothing, of walls, of five hours, slept in a growing sweat and fitfully, catching snatches for days and weeks, dreaming of it, forgetting it, waking into it fresh, getting better then worse, then better, then so bad he went back to the bottom, the last delirium of agony, the terrible pit, days, weeks, monotonous pain, tiring itself into an alien vigorousness, lifting, clarifying to a place of full recognition and came out the man.

 

Towards his last most cherished sentient connection, some greatest kiss closed in on his girl that night and exposed him in a fullness that terrified and delighted, brought tears to her eyes and proposed. The ring came later, and all the nights in her arms in their pleasure made something so beautiful and fragile that nine months later life became more precious than ever and the new man and husband became the dad he’d lost and his life achieved the completeness that was less an end than the beginning of a higher journey, a wholeness that grew great through strain and accomplishment, through challenge and applause with each new inch and step until feathers flew and Darren could look at his opposite and see back with a nostalgia that heralded an optimism in an unknowable mist, brightening to a future whose past was scarred with glitter in a chain of more elbows undaunted with the strength of years and a certain pride in attainment as his boy had a boy in whom he saw all life in a bitter sweet long lineage for the end door.

 

A grand man closest now to the draft felt the weather turn on his ageing form, stripping him coldly to the bones in his preparation for the numbness of the ground, a loneliness as he neared the drop off point mitigated still by the youth of his boy and his boy, a smile still draped across his thin lips though his wife dropped as his mother had at a premature speed, and he knew his older dad in a growing all of it where one comes to know another in totality only with one’s own demise, and as his own boy with his own boy watched, for Darren there was a fullness of wisdom, a comprehension of two or more lives, minds lost and found together fully as an everything consciousness faded to nothingness and went on.     

Reviews

[Ama May Cooper]

What a powerful and almost inspirational piece.. You have not only depicted a tale to us here but the tale of more than one, the tale of generations of birth and re-growth.
A sad tale of death o beautifully described but a happy tale of growth and accomplishment , acceptance and progression... wonderfully written , fantastic read please never top writing

[Kaylor Mason]

Life is the art of letting go, as the say

[TL Boehm]

This thing just tumbles and spills down the page in a rush of words and thoughts. Much like life itself as though the writer is trying to get everything out before the clock stops ticking and there are only seconds left to tell the story.

[Craig2591]

I like it. It does give a sense of hope and renewal.

I'm not sure I liked the extremely long sentences, but that's just my opinion.

[Michael of Gilead]

the circle of life, very well done, as i see things in this that have been for me

Very, very well done sir.

[Tabitha t]

SO SAD! lol I loved the way it was written. Your writers voice is very eloquent! Thanks for the great read.

[afra]

excellent write ....i enjoyed it

[Junert]

Nice.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

OK.................The topic is interesting but the writing sloppy and messy. it does not hang as well or read as fluently as many of your other pieces. It needs crafting and your undevided attention me thinks.