In Remembrance.
By Katherine Smyth

You know it’s surprising what you remember as a child. But then tragedy will do that to anyone. I remember the noise of the gurney wheels in the corridors, how they’d screech and squeal. I remember the bright lights, there was always one that didn’t work properly, that would blink on and off, as if it were keeping the time. Most of all, I remember all the machines, little screens with numbers and lines, flashing lights, I didn’t know what any of it meant then. But I do now. Now, to me, it means pain and loss.

For days on end I sat there, with either our Mother or Father, sometimes both. Watching. Watching and waiting. Praying that time would make a difference. That there’d be a miracle. That there’d be some sign of life. Listening to the mechanical beeps, to the doctors and nurses as they came and went, discussing the prognosis, and what was to be done. Felt like an eternity to my childlike mind, that we sat there patiently, hoping for a different outcome.

I remember when the doctor came in. Asking for Mum and Dad to come outside, into the hallway. I didn’t hear much of their conversation. I wasn’t really paying attention. But I do remember the sound of our Mother’s heart breaking, the cry that I’m sure tore into the very souls of everyone present.  “I’m sorry Helen. Jim, it’s time” ,  “NO! No! It can’t be!”  our Mother screamed as she collapsed into Fathers arms.  “Are you sure? There isn’t ANYTHING that can be done?”  Dad asked. But the doctor said no. 

I can still see them as they came back into the room. The way Father sat Mother down next to me. Then walked over to the bed, alone, and stood there, watching. Time seemed to stand still. No one moving, hardly even breathing. Then Mother went over to stand beside him, picked up his hand and held it. Their heads leaning into each other, both crying. Never speaking. Silent in their support for the other.

I remember the noise my tiny feet made as they crossed the room. The many steps that disturbed an almost perfect stillness. The feeling of cold steel in my hand as I touched the rails, trying to peer up into the bed. I couldn’t stand with them. I knew I had to stand there on my own. I heard the click as Father pressed the button. I heard Mothers cries start again, and I heard Father wail as they held each other tighter. That’s when I went to them. To hold them. To try to make it better.

But I couldn’t, it was too much. Too much pain, too much sadness. Just too much. I remember the sounds of the machines slowing. The beeps becoming fewer. Those strange lines were different too. Then silence. That terrible silence, that hung between and around us. No more beeps, no more lines across the screens. It all stopped. Everything but the crying. I’ll never forget that. Father picked me up, held me between them. I couldn’t help it, I started crying as well. 

The tears did stop eventually. But the pain never did. It still hurts, even today, so many years later. My worst memory is seeing him laying there. Not moving. So different from what I was used to. He’d always been there, bigger than me, noisier too. He was Mum’s favourite. Her little helper. Me, I was Dad’s pal. But now there’s only me. Now I have to look after both of them. Just me, little Luke. The sole child. The remaining son of this family. 

In loving remembrance of a friend who lost his fight against leukaemia.