There are some who say that the last days of a man's life are the most profound; that it is in those last days when he discovers the truth of himself and the legacy he leaves behind him. If that really was true, then Ian Evans, Senior, had discovered in his last days something that was far more precious than his seventy-eight years of academia and scholarly achievement. For the first time since the loss of his wife, he had a family again - a son who loved and wanted to know him; a daughter-in-law who had brought laughter into that son's life; even a grand-daughter, tiny though she was. They were his legacy, and at the same time, his salvation. As his strength waned, they were there constantly, a warm presence that lit up his hospital room.
The evening of their first arrival, that room had been transformed. They had brought things from his own bedroom at home - a quilt, a pillow, photographs in frames. Aurelia had filled vases with fresh flowers, the scent of which seemed to ease the aches in his body. Ian brought the books he knew his father loved, reading them to him in quiet moments. It didn't feel like a bland place where a nobody would fade away any longer. It was a small slice of home. But, inevitably, it just wasn't enough to keep him strong enough to carry on.
Five days after he had made his peace with his father, Ian was woken early in the morning by a phone call from the hospital. Ian Evans, Senior, had slipped into a coma. It would not be long now.
Ian Evans, Junior, had mixed feelings at the knowledge that his father was quickly nearing his end. There was a sense of relief that his suffering would soon end, but there was also grief in knowing the finality of it and that he would have to at last have to let the man go. It took a little bit for his small family to gather themselves and get to the hospital and though they'd known this day was coming - in fact, had anticipated it from the moment they'd first been summoned to England - there was still a touch of urgency and sadness.
The hospital was almost silent as they entered, the lights still dimmed in recognition of the morning that had not yet broken. A gentle nurse let them in, allowing them to find their own way to the right room, where Ian's father lay amid his pillows, covered over by his own quilt, calm and still but for the rattle of his breath in his throat as he sank ever deeper into the sleep he would never wake up from.
Ian paused in the doorway to slowly take in the scene, to gather his thoughts and his courage, though his father was too far gone now to know or care how his son was handling his death. He was glad Aurelia had added her own touches to the room, which had been too stark and cold before, too ....sterile. Though it wasn't home, it felt homey, and he thought his father, at least, looked at peace there, as if he was only resting, but for the rattle of breath.
Standing behind him, Aurelia gently touched her lips to his shoulder, urging him into the room as she stepped forward. "Say hello to him, Ian," she suggested softly, guiding him toward his father's bedside. "Let him know you are here."
"Will he hear me?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his wife uncertainly. His mother's death had been very different, very sudden, and he had been much younger at the time and ill prepared to deal with it.
She paused for a moment, murmuring something indistinct under her breath as she touched the old man's hand. A sad smile touched her face. "He is still here," she told her husband gently. "He can hear you." She bent over the bed, brushing a soft kiss to the old man's forehead. "Hello, Ian," she greeted him quietly. "We are here. You are not alone." Very carefully, she drew his arm a little way out from his body, and laid Morgan down on the bed within the enclosing wrap of that arm.
The younger Ian watched curiously from the doorway while his wife whispered to his father and, most likely for the very last time, allowed him to embrace the grand-daughter that was his legacy and, presumably, through whom the family line would live on. He felt a little uneasy suddenly knowing his father was so close to death and yet that he was aware enough to know they were there, to know he was not alone. It brought him an odd sense of comfort and yet, there was that fear of finality again, despite everything he believed about the afterlife. "How do you know?" he asked as he came closer.
She straightened, holding her hand out to him. "A spell, mon coeur," she told him softly. "Sometimes there is only the body, the machine, waiting to wind down. But your father is still here, for a little while. Come and speak to him, Ian. You need it, as much as he does."
Ian accepted that as fact, as easily as someone might accept the fact that the world was round or that the sun rose in the morning and set at night. He had no doubt his wife was telling him the truth; he only wanted to understand the how of it. He came closer, settling himself in the chair he'd become very familiar with over the last five days or so and pulling it close to the bed. He took his father's free hand between his own, very gently stroking the old wrinkled flesh with fondness. When he looked at his father, he saw an old man, frail from illness, but he knew the spirit inside the man that was yearning to break free was far from frail. "Hey, Dad. I'm here," he started.
There was no outward response, no change in that rattling breath, but there was a sense that he had been heard. The hand in his was cool, but not cold. The life had not left the body yet.
With a gentle stroke of her fingers through her husband's hair, Aurelia moved away, to do some things that she had always been taught to do at times like this. Sheets from the cupboard were laid over the mirror in the bathroom, and the standing mirror in the bedroom itself; the latch on one of the windows was undone, for ease of opening when the time came. Little things that gave comfort and eased passing, one way or another.
Ian was aware of his wife moving about the room, making some sort of preparations for his father's passing - for the release of his soul. He felt the faint thrum of pulse in his father's wrist and heard the rattle of breath, and knew he had not yet passed through Death's door, but he was close. Was he waiting for something" Waiting perhaps for Ian to give him permission, to let him go' They had talked and laughed and even cried more these last five days than they had in years, and Ian wasn't sure he was ready to let go of him yet, and yet, he knew he had to. It was selfish to make him stay when he was suffering so, just because Ian was afraid to say goodbye.
As the silence thickened, Aurelia returned to his side, perching on the arm of the chair he sat in, her fingers gentle in her husband's hair. "It seems strange, doesn't it?" she said quietly, sensing that he needed help to speak, even if it was only to fill the silence crowding in on his father's dying hours. "That only yesterday, he was talking and laughing, and now he almost ready to go." She kissed Ian's hair softly, wrapping her arm about his shoulders. "He has enjoyed having you here, mon coeur."
Ian leaned into her embrace, needing her touch as much, perhaps, as his father needed his. "I've enjoyed being here," he admitted. Not so much the circumstances, but the opportunity. He was grateful he'd been able to be here, knowing he'd cherish these short five days for the rest of his life. "What should I say?" he asked, feeling at something of a loss for words.
"Tell him that," she said simply. "Tell him everything that you want to tell him. That you love him, that you will miss him. That you regret not coming home sooner, because I know you do. And tell him about you. About what you will do, where you will go. Make sure he knows that you will not make his mistakes, and you will not be alone. Let him go in the knowledge that his son, who he loves, will be loved and cherished all the days of his life."
The evening of their first arrival, that room had been transformed. They had brought things from his own bedroom at home - a quilt, a pillow, photographs in frames. Aurelia had filled vases with fresh flowers, the scent of which seemed to ease the aches in his body. Ian brought the books he knew his father loved, reading them to him in quiet moments. It didn't feel like a bland place where a nobody would fade away any longer. It was a small slice of home. But, inevitably, it just wasn't enough to keep him strong enough to carry on.
Five days after he had made his peace with his father, Ian was woken early in the morning by a phone call from the hospital. Ian Evans, Senior, had slipped into a coma. It would not be long now.
Ian Evans, Junior, had mixed feelings at the knowledge that his father was quickly nearing his end. There was a sense of relief that his suffering would soon end, but there was also grief in knowing the finality of it and that he would have to at last have to let the man go. It took a little bit for his small family to gather themselves and get to the hospital and though they'd known this day was coming - in fact, had anticipated it from the moment they'd first been summoned to England - there was still a touch of urgency and sadness.
The hospital was almost silent as they entered, the lights still dimmed in recognition of the morning that had not yet broken. A gentle nurse let them in, allowing them to find their own way to the right room, where Ian's father lay amid his pillows, covered over by his own quilt, calm and still but for the rattle of his breath in his throat as he sank ever deeper into the sleep he would never wake up from.
Ian paused in the doorway to slowly take in the scene, to gather his thoughts and his courage, though his father was too far gone now to know or care how his son was handling his death. He was glad Aurelia had added her own touches to the room, which had been too stark and cold before, too ....sterile. Though it wasn't home, it felt homey, and he thought his father, at least, looked at peace there, as if he was only resting, but for the rattle of breath.
Standing behind him, Aurelia gently touched her lips to his shoulder, urging him into the room as she stepped forward. "Say hello to him, Ian," she suggested softly, guiding him toward his father's bedside. "Let him know you are here."
"Will he hear me?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his wife uncertainly. His mother's death had been very different, very sudden, and he had been much younger at the time and ill prepared to deal with it.
She paused for a moment, murmuring something indistinct under her breath as she touched the old man's hand. A sad smile touched her face. "He is still here," she told her husband gently. "He can hear you." She bent over the bed, brushing a soft kiss to the old man's forehead. "Hello, Ian," she greeted him quietly. "We are here. You are not alone." Very carefully, she drew his arm a little way out from his body, and laid Morgan down on the bed within the enclosing wrap of that arm.
The younger Ian watched curiously from the doorway while his wife whispered to his father and, most likely for the very last time, allowed him to embrace the grand-daughter that was his legacy and, presumably, through whom the family line would live on. He felt a little uneasy suddenly knowing his father was so close to death and yet that he was aware enough to know they were there, to know he was not alone. It brought him an odd sense of comfort and yet, there was that fear of finality again, despite everything he believed about the afterlife. "How do you know?" he asked as he came closer.
She straightened, holding her hand out to him. "A spell, mon coeur," she told him softly. "Sometimes there is only the body, the machine, waiting to wind down. But your father is still here, for a little while. Come and speak to him, Ian. You need it, as much as he does."
Ian accepted that as fact, as easily as someone might accept the fact that the world was round or that the sun rose in the morning and set at night. He had no doubt his wife was telling him the truth; he only wanted to understand the how of it. He came closer, settling himself in the chair he'd become very familiar with over the last five days or so and pulling it close to the bed. He took his father's free hand between his own, very gently stroking the old wrinkled flesh with fondness. When he looked at his father, he saw an old man, frail from illness, but he knew the spirit inside the man that was yearning to break free was far from frail. "Hey, Dad. I'm here," he started.
There was no outward response, no change in that rattling breath, but there was a sense that he had been heard. The hand in his was cool, but not cold. The life had not left the body yet.
With a gentle stroke of her fingers through her husband's hair, Aurelia moved away, to do some things that she had always been taught to do at times like this. Sheets from the cupboard were laid over the mirror in the bathroom, and the standing mirror in the bedroom itself; the latch on one of the windows was undone, for ease of opening when the time came. Little things that gave comfort and eased passing, one way or another.
Ian was aware of his wife moving about the room, making some sort of preparations for his father's passing - for the release of his soul. He felt the faint thrum of pulse in his father's wrist and heard the rattle of breath, and knew he had not yet passed through Death's door, but he was close. Was he waiting for something" Waiting perhaps for Ian to give him permission, to let him go' They had talked and laughed and even cried more these last five days than they had in years, and Ian wasn't sure he was ready to let go of him yet, and yet, he knew he had to. It was selfish to make him stay when he was suffering so, just because Ian was afraid to say goodbye.
As the silence thickened, Aurelia returned to his side, perching on the arm of the chair he sat in, her fingers gentle in her husband's hair. "It seems strange, doesn't it?" she said quietly, sensing that he needed help to speak, even if it was only to fill the silence crowding in on his father's dying hours. "That only yesterday, he was talking and laughing, and now he almost ready to go." She kissed Ian's hair softly, wrapping her arm about his shoulders. "He has enjoyed having you here, mon coeur."
Ian leaned into her embrace, needing her touch as much, perhaps, as his father needed his. "I've enjoyed being here," he admitted. Not so much the circumstances, but the opportunity. He was grateful he'd been able to be here, knowing he'd cherish these short five days for the rest of his life. "What should I say?" he asked, feeling at something of a loss for words.
"Tell him that," she said simply. "Tell him everything that you want to tell him. That you love him, that you will miss him. That you regret not coming home sooner, because I know you do. And tell him about you. About what you will do, where you will go. Make sure he knows that you will not make his mistakes, and you will not be alone. Let him go in the knowledge that his son, who he loves, will be loved and cherished all the days of his life."