It was five years ago today on a Tuesday afternoon that I received the phone call from Wythenshawe hospital to go in urgently because my Dad, Bill, was not doing too well after his heart valve operation. There was no other information given over the phone; I asked what was wrong with him but they just said he was poorly and I should come in immediately. I contacted Debra and Peg then arranged to pick them up and go to Wythenshawe hospital together. It was an eerie uncomfortable car trip across Manchester from Bury, driving on the M60 in a light drizzle, overcast sort of day, as I remember it. We were thinking he may have had an operation complication such as heart attack or stroke. Peg thought he had died; she was certain and was already in panic mode. I tried to comfort my mother telling her not to worry and wait until we found out the facts and truth of Bills condition. No point in thinking the worst.
We arrived in the hospital and parked, finding some coins to pay parking fees and proceeded to the main door entrance of Wythenshawe hospital. Bill had been in the heart catheter unit which was not easy to locate. We had never been in before and there was still COVID lockdown restrictions, meaning no visits had been allowed when he was admitted the day before, only a brief phone call to say, ‘good luck’ and ‘see you tomorrow’. We wandered around the main corridor, looking for a sign or someone to tell us the way. No one helped, people had masks on everywhere, social distancing was in force. Eventually someone directed us to the correct location at the back of the hospital and we got to a small waiting area with a man behind a window. We told them Bills name, William Moran and explained about his operation and the phone call to come urgently. The man behind the glass said nothing; his face was behind a mask; his eyes though visible seemed masked also. We sat down and waited. Peg was frantic by now, very agitated and upset. Desperate to see her husband of 50 years.
After 40 minutes or so, it seemed a long time, a group of medics arrived in a flash, each going straight into the unit, wearing green gowns, masks; talking loudly, confidently. They looked at us. We looked back but they did not say anything. I sensed we were going to find out if Bill was alive soon. After they made us wait 40 minutes despite the urgent call (which was well over an hour ago by now); I figured either my Dad was alive after suffering a stroke/heart attack (but relatively stable) or he was dead. Peg knew which of these it was; I did not. Up to this point in life I held an optimistic, belief in the NHS and its care; belief in good outcomes in life. Humans are creatures of hope; the fittest evolved to survive through bad times and not despair.
The locked catheter unit door opened and a couple of the medics emerged, beckoning us inward. We went in quickly. Once inside we were told to disinfect our hands and put on new masks. Peg was going mad by now. The consultant ushered us into a side room with chairs in. Once he did this, I knew Bill was gone. If my Dad was still alive, we would have been brought to his bedside immediately. We motioned towards the small room with chairs and almost sat down but Peg wanted to see her husband now, she was hysterical and emotional and out of control. A medic relented, saying, he was sorry to tell us that William had died. This seemed unreal to me; I felt disconnected. How could it be? Surely not? I had not felt him dying, not had pain or discomfort; no premonition, nothing. Peg knew; she pushed towards the treatment room and the table where my Dad was lying in a small room at the end of the corridor. We went after her. The Medics got there and opened the door where he was lying. Peg was on the floor, collapsed with grief, loss, emotion. I felt strangely numb; in control but my stomach churning and twisting. I went in. There my Dad was, lying flat with a breathing tube hanging out of his mouth, fixed with a tie. He looked like he was asleep. Peg immediately complained about the tube being left in his mouth; why hadn’t they taken it out? It looked awful she said, through her tears and sobbing. I stood there looking. I was in shock. Peg held Bills hand and kissed him on his lips. The medics told her not to kiss him in case she got COVID but Peg didn’t care. Peg told us to kiss our Dad but I held back. Peg said he was cold so I held my Dads hand; it felt warm to me. Peg went outside with Oscar; me and my sister were on our own with our father. There was a feeling of strange calm. An unreal feeling.
I wanted to be able to cope with this; it was something I had dreaded for many years; since 2009 after Bill had a stroke; I thought he could die at any time. But he had lasted until now, 2020. Now it had happened, it was not how I thought it would be. No warning, no preparation, no time. I looked around the room; it was some sort of post treatment unit; not the operating theatre. Bill had a white sheet and blanket over him, pulled tight. I touched his chest and body. His chest felt hard not soft, almost like a rock. I thought of the metal tubes and pacemaker inside; maybe this was why his chest felt hard. I held his hand again and talked to him like he was alive. I said to him, ‘’so this is how it feels to be dead, Bill’. It was a strange thing to say. I felt strange. My mind was distraught with shock and my stomach had butterflies and a mangled feeling. A deflated, depressive edge crept in; just a bit but starting. This feeling grew over the next few days and weeks. Numbness lessoned and pain increased.
Rest in Peace,
Bill
28th July 2025
Tony
Margaret and Anthony 