Handsome DadDad died from lung cancer, in the Victoria Hospital, Blackpool, at 03.50, on the 20th April 2007.
Darren and I were by his side as he passed....he was not alone.
Infact he was not alone for the last three weeks of his life...although no one knew that this would be the end at the time.
Alexander Robert O'Neill had been complaining of a wee cough and a touch of hoarseness for the past three to four weeks. He was often on the telephone complaining of this breathlessness, and being the typical nag that I am, I threatened physical violence if he didn't go to the Doctors. He ignored me for a week, and then when I demanded I go with him to the GPs (General Practitioners, the family physician), he caved in and made an appointment. Infact he was seen urgently that morning, and given antibiotics for a 'chest infection'. This was the 22nd March.
30th March
By the following week, he returned to the GPs, and got more antibiotics, as the chestiness was not clearing. Infact it had worsened, resulting in him telephoning the GPs having a panic attack and not being able to breathe. They calmed him down, gave him more tablets, and sent him to the local hospital for a chest x-ray. He had previously been diagnosed with pneumonia, and had a cancer scare two years ago (given the all clear), but I suspected maybe something worse than a chest infection. But I was no doctor, and had faith the medical profession knew what they were doing.
Dad and his 'Grand-cat'
Sunday April 1st.
Darren and I returned home from visiting a dear friend (Vanessa, my swim-pal) 30 miles away, who had lost her sister that week. Before going to bed, I checked the answering machine, and there, was a distressing voice-mail on the home phone from my Dad, saying 'Pick up the phone Celia- please- I can't breathe". Darren and I raced round at 11.30 pm, dreading what we would find. We raced through the house- empty. I pressed Last Number Redial and got through to the emergency services....so I concluded Dad had phoned for an ambulance. I then called the local hospital, who confirmed he had been admitted with breathing difficulties and yes, it was fine for me to go over asap!
So Darren and I turn up at the Victoria Hospital, in our pyjamas and coats (as you do) just before midnight, to Dad on oxygen and wired up like a Christmas tree and on a drip and intravenous antibiotics, apparently now not panicking, just a trifle embarrassed and wanting home...
This was the beginning of our new ritual of hospital visits everyday without fail...until we just never left his side the last week...
Monday 2nd April
Dad bored and already chatting up the nurses on his new Ward, number 25. Complaining of being in the 'old mens' ward' and generally being a mischievous and sweet nuisance. Still on IV antibiotics for the chest. Chest X-rays taken. All the nurses falling for his charms- sly old sod. Tell my Aunt Rose and brother Tommy that Alec is in hospital with a chest infection. Darren takes him in his weekly Boxing News (as was tradition) and Dad teases Darren about Man Utd. As usual.
Tuesday 3rd April
Dad told he's having a bronchoscopy- a camera down into his lungs. I am scared but don't show it to anyone. I know why they do that....a little medical training is a very dangerous thing. Dad no longer on antibiotics. He's complaining about the poor senile old man who Dad has nicknamed 'Creeping Jesus' and 'The Praying mantis' on account of the poor old soul's shuffle. Has the nurses in stitches with his stories.
Wednesday 4th April
Turn up as usual to the hospital, taken into the family room. Never a good sign. The Sister breaks the news that Dad has lung cancer. They are going to conduct more tests to see how advanced it is, what treatment is possible...advised Chemo is out of the window already, as dad has heart problems and Chemo weakens hearts. Advised that the professionals would not be discussing his case until the Friday after Easter...Friday the 6th was Good Friday, and mustn't expect Consultants to interrupt their Golf now must we....(you may sense alot of anger and resentment here which was fully expressed at the time....). We suggest the private route, but would make no difference.
Dad knew his diagnosis and tried to be brave, but I knew he had taken it badly, as he asked the Sister to break the news- he couldn't face breaking it to me. He knew we had 10 days to wait for the Treatment Plan.
I was brave and positive in front of him. We told him that he was going to have to be strong, as he had to walk his daughter down the aisle...Darren and I had booked the church the Tuesday before for 05/09/08. (which was true...we were going to tell him the day he was admitted to hospital). He granted Darren permission to marry me, and stated that the colour scheme would have to be navy blue...and thank God is was him, as he hadn't liked the other ones I'd dated...
My legs went from underneath me twice on the stairs going out of the hospital, crying and distressed beyond belief.
This is not happening.
Easter Weekend
Easter was dreadful....Dad always has Easter Dinner here since Mum died, and it felt awful and I felt lost without him here.
Visit him and took in his Easter Eggs and some sweeties for the nurses (as was becoming the custom)
Dad enjoying a nice pint on holiday in Skye with Darren & I, 2004
He shared his Easter egg with us & the nurses.
Tart.
Friday 13th April (Black Friday)
The day of the Consultants meeting that we have been waiting for. By this time I am truely kicking off and checking out regulations and the Patients Charter. They advise me we shall be told Monday of the outcome of the meeting. After waiting for 10 days, we are no nearer knowing dad's prognosis.
Saturday 14th-Sunday 15th
Dad deteriorates rapidly. On oxygen. Darren suggests bringing the wedding forward.
Monday 16th April
We turn up to Ward 25 to find the Oncologist (cancer specialist) waiting for Darren and I. Not a good sign. Alec is terminal. Has the worst and rarest type of lung cancer possible- small cell tumour in his upper right lobe. No secondaries, but doesn't matter....it's nasty and aggressive.
He cannot be cured.
He will not see our wedding in September 2008.
He will not survive to see my birthday this September.
Infact, even with Radiotherapy, the odds of him seeing the Summer are remote.
I ask the advice of Sister Karen, with whom we have become close- should I show how scared and how much I love him? She tells me if I don't I'll regret it. The bedcurtains are closed around his bed as I grab onto him and sob into his chest...poor Dad doesn't know what to do....I'm always the strong and feisty one...I don't do emotion! Karen places his arm round my back as I cry into his big strong chest for what I want to be eternity.
Darren and I tell him that after the Radiotherapy, we shall all go to Scotland for a weekend...as we were supposed to this Spring before he felt poorly....
Dad asks Darren to "take care of my baby".
Tuesday 17th April
Call the hospital 08.30 in the morning (as tradition to see how his night was), advised he had deteriorated, but he was okay.
10am receive The Call from Sister Karen....we should come in....Dad is fading, it is a question of time.
Dad is poorly but alert, and suspicious- "why aren't you both at work"....we just say we have the day off.
The plans made the previous evening regarding radiotherapy within fortnight and getting care in the house, changed to moving him into Trinity Hospice....then within hours he was too weak to even move by ambulance.
Trinity Specialist Palliative Nurse Helen came into Ward 25 and in effect created a miniature hospice in a side room for Dad. He asks what the syringe-driver is for in his stomach....I tell him it is to stop him feeling so nauseous and reduce the pain. He just about understands. Darren and I both know it is Morphine and a cocktails of drugs to totally knock him out to reduce the pain of death, but I can't bring myself to tell him. His body is failing. I ask the Priest to visit my Dad, and he receives Communion and the Holy Sacrament. He is becoming distressed that he's having trouble swallowing.
I go against Dad's wishes and call his sister, my Aunty Mina, and tell her the news- she is stunned and not so well herself.
We were given a key to a 'relatives room' so we could stay at the hospital through the night. As it happened, it ended up being four nights (although we rarely used it, except to shower and change clothes).
Darren went out to feed Ann's cats and feed Greebo, but I stayed at Dad's side (bar a few hours kip in the relatives room down the corridor) for the next 90-odd hours in a bedside vigil.
Wednesday 18th April
I tell my Dad that Aunt Mina is coming tomorrow- he frowns at me...can only just about communicate with eyebrows now- but I know inside he'll be happy she's coming. It's just that he never wanted to be any trouble to anyone. He has now totally lost his swallow reflex, and even mixing thickener in with a nutrition drink, I can no longer spoon-feed him.
Totally drugged up on Morphine and sedatives, the drugs start to take their toll, and the deliriums start when night falls. We are by his bedside throughout the night, cooling his hot forehead with cold compresses and rubbing ice cubes across his lips. He falls asleep, stops breathing, then wakes bolt upright fighting and gasping for air with a start, shouting for his "Mammy"...D and I calm him down and eventually the three of us fall asleep exhausted around 5am, me leaning on his shoulder across the bed, knowing this may be the last time...funny how Dad would only fall asleep when he heard the dawn chorus...he was scared, even when drugged, of dying during the night and so would fight.
Thursday 19th April
I know that Dad is now hanging on for his sister. His breathing is laboured and you can hear the fluid in his lungs.
Aunt Mina turns up driven by her son Neil, from Chelmsford. Dad is basicially unconscious now, but he hears his sister's voice and grips her hand. She leaves, knowing that she'll never see him alive again.
Around 1 a.m, Darren and I tempt fate. For the first time in three nights, we attempt go to the Relatives room to catch a few hours sleep as the behest of the wonderful nurses and staff who assure us they will keep an eye on him for us. Not 10 minutes later, I have just changed into my pyjamas, and there is a knock at the door. I sprint down the corridor to my Dad's room, where his unconscious body is now desperately fighting to stay alive. All the nurses had done is turn him over, and his breathing changed. His eyes are bulging, wide like goldfish, as he gasps for every breath and physically racks for every breath from the oxygen mask. His face is drawn back, racked with pain....but I cannot see my dad inside those eyes...they are vacant.
At 03.50, the breaths get hard and harder and with one last gasp, black tar fluid gushes from his mouth, the very liquid he had been drowning in, caused by the cancer. I stay and stroke his head as Darren shouts for the nurse. They try to push us away, but we stay with him and hold his hand as my Dad slowly slips away, and the life-blood drains from his face.
His battle is over, such a brave and wonderful man. I desperately miss him and take comfort in that Darren, " Dad's wee pal" as he used to call him, and I were there. I also take comfort that he got to know his sister was there. I only wish he had managed to hang on for Trisha and Peter- who came down later that day from Scotland. But maybe is is better that they remember him for who he was to them...humourous, funny, told the same flippin' stories over and over...an interesting and loving man who shall be greatly missed by all those whose lives he touched.
Cheers Dad- I love you xxxxxx
Darren and I were by his side as he passed....he was not alone.
Infact he was not alone for the last three weeks of his life...although no one knew that this would be the end at the time.
Alexander Robert O'Neill had been complaining of a wee cough and a touch of hoarseness for the past three to four weeks. He was often on the telephone complaining of this breathlessness, and being the typical nag that I am, I threatened physical violence if he didn't go to the Doctors. He ignored me for a week, and then when I demanded I go with him to the GPs (General Practitioners, the family physician), he caved in and made an appointment. Infact he was seen urgently that morning, and given antibiotics for a 'chest infection'. This was the 22nd March.
30th March
By the following week, he returned to the GPs, and got more antibiotics, as the chestiness was not clearing. Infact it had worsened, resulting in him telephoning the GPs having a panic attack and not being able to breathe. They calmed him down, gave him more tablets, and sent him to the local hospital for a chest x-ray. He had previously been diagnosed with pneumonia, and had a cancer scare two years ago (given the all clear), but I suspected maybe something worse than a chest infection. But I was no doctor, and had faith the medical profession knew what they were doing.
Dad and his 'Grand-cat'Sunday April 1st.
Darren and I returned home from visiting a dear friend (Vanessa, my swim-pal) 30 miles away, who had lost her sister that week. Before going to bed, I checked the answering machine, and there, was a distressing voice-mail on the home phone from my Dad, saying 'Pick up the phone Celia- please- I can't breathe". Darren and I raced round at 11.30 pm, dreading what we would find. We raced through the house- empty. I pressed Last Number Redial and got through to the emergency services....so I concluded Dad had phoned for an ambulance. I then called the local hospital, who confirmed he had been admitted with breathing difficulties and yes, it was fine for me to go over asap!
So Darren and I turn up at the Victoria Hospital, in our pyjamas and coats (as you do) just before midnight, to Dad on oxygen and wired up like a Christmas tree and on a drip and intravenous antibiotics, apparently now not panicking, just a trifle embarrassed and wanting home...
This was the beginning of our new ritual of hospital visits everyday without fail...until we just never left his side the last week...
Monday 2nd April
Dad bored and already chatting up the nurses on his new Ward, number 25. Complaining of being in the 'old mens' ward' and generally being a mischievous and sweet nuisance. Still on IV antibiotics for the chest. Chest X-rays taken. All the nurses falling for his charms- sly old sod. Tell my Aunt Rose and brother Tommy that Alec is in hospital with a chest infection. Darren takes him in his weekly Boxing News (as was tradition) and Dad teases Darren about Man Utd. As usual.
Tuesday 3rd April
Dad told he's having a bronchoscopy- a camera down into his lungs. I am scared but don't show it to anyone. I know why they do that....a little medical training is a very dangerous thing. Dad no longer on antibiotics. He's complaining about the poor senile old man who Dad has nicknamed 'Creeping Jesus' and 'The Praying mantis' on account of the poor old soul's shuffle. Has the nurses in stitches with his stories.
Wednesday 4th April
Turn up as usual to the hospital, taken into the family room. Never a good sign. The Sister breaks the news that Dad has lung cancer. They are going to conduct more tests to see how advanced it is, what treatment is possible...advised Chemo is out of the window already, as dad has heart problems and Chemo weakens hearts. Advised that the professionals would not be discussing his case until the Friday after Easter...Friday the 6th was Good Friday, and mustn't expect Consultants to interrupt their Golf now must we....(you may sense alot of anger and resentment here which was fully expressed at the time....). We suggest the private route, but would make no difference.
Dad knew his diagnosis and tried to be brave, but I knew he had taken it badly, as he asked the Sister to break the news- he couldn't face breaking it to me. He knew we had 10 days to wait for the Treatment Plan.
I was brave and positive in front of him. We told him that he was going to have to be strong, as he had to walk his daughter down the aisle...Darren and I had booked the church the Tuesday before for 05/09/08. (which was true...we were going to tell him the day he was admitted to hospital). He granted Darren permission to marry me, and stated that the colour scheme would have to be navy blue...and thank God is was him, as he hadn't liked the other ones I'd dated...
My legs went from underneath me twice on the stairs going out of the hospital, crying and distressed beyond belief.
This is not happening.
Easter Weekend
Easter was dreadful....Dad always has Easter Dinner here since Mum died, and it felt awful and I felt lost without him here.
Visit him and took in his Easter Eggs and some sweeties for the nurses (as was becoming the custom)
Dad enjoying a nice pint on holiday in Skye with Darren & I, 2004He shared his Easter egg with us & the nurses.
Tart.
Friday 13th April (Black Friday)
The day of the Consultants meeting that we have been waiting for. By this time I am truely kicking off and checking out regulations and the Patients Charter. They advise me we shall be told Monday of the outcome of the meeting. After waiting for 10 days, we are no nearer knowing dad's prognosis.
Saturday 14th-Sunday 15th
Dad deteriorates rapidly. On oxygen. Darren suggests bringing the wedding forward.
Monday 16th April
We turn up to Ward 25 to find the Oncologist (cancer specialist) waiting for Darren and I. Not a good sign. Alec is terminal. Has the worst and rarest type of lung cancer possible- small cell tumour in his upper right lobe. No secondaries, but doesn't matter....it's nasty and aggressive.
He cannot be cured.
He will not see our wedding in September 2008.
He will not survive to see my birthday this September.
Infact, even with Radiotherapy, the odds of him seeing the Summer are remote.
I ask the advice of Sister Karen, with whom we have become close- should I show how scared and how much I love him? She tells me if I don't I'll regret it. The bedcurtains are closed around his bed as I grab onto him and sob into his chest...poor Dad doesn't know what to do....I'm always the strong and feisty one...I don't do emotion! Karen places his arm round my back as I cry into his big strong chest for what I want to be eternity.
Darren and I tell him that after the Radiotherapy, we shall all go to Scotland for a weekend...as we were supposed to this Spring before he felt poorly....
Dad asks Darren to "take care of my baby".
Tuesday 17th April
Call the hospital 08.30 in the morning (as tradition to see how his night was), advised he had deteriorated, but he was okay.
10am receive The Call from Sister Karen....we should come in....Dad is fading, it is a question of time.
Dad is poorly but alert, and suspicious- "why aren't you both at work"....we just say we have the day off.
The plans made the previous evening regarding radiotherapy within fortnight and getting care in the house, changed to moving him into Trinity Hospice....then within hours he was too weak to even move by ambulance.
Trinity Specialist Palliative Nurse Helen came into Ward 25 and in effect created a miniature hospice in a side room for Dad. He asks what the syringe-driver is for in his stomach....I tell him it is to stop him feeling so nauseous and reduce the pain. He just about understands. Darren and I both know it is Morphine and a cocktails of drugs to totally knock him out to reduce the pain of death, but I can't bring myself to tell him. His body is failing. I ask the Priest to visit my Dad, and he receives Communion and the Holy Sacrament. He is becoming distressed that he's having trouble swallowing.
I go against Dad's wishes and call his sister, my Aunty Mina, and tell her the news- she is stunned and not so well herself.
We were given a key to a 'relatives room' so we could stay at the hospital through the night. As it happened, it ended up being four nights (although we rarely used it, except to shower and change clothes).
Darren went out to feed Ann's cats and feed Greebo, but I stayed at Dad's side (bar a few hours kip in the relatives room down the corridor) for the next 90-odd hours in a bedside vigil.
Wednesday 18th April
I tell my Dad that Aunt Mina is coming tomorrow- he frowns at me...can only just about communicate with eyebrows now- but I know inside he'll be happy she's coming. It's just that he never wanted to be any trouble to anyone. He has now totally lost his swallow reflex, and even mixing thickener in with a nutrition drink, I can no longer spoon-feed him.
Totally drugged up on Morphine and sedatives, the drugs start to take their toll, and the deliriums start when night falls. We are by his bedside throughout the night, cooling his hot forehead with cold compresses and rubbing ice cubes across his lips. He falls asleep, stops breathing, then wakes bolt upright fighting and gasping for air with a start, shouting for his "Mammy"...D and I calm him down and eventually the three of us fall asleep exhausted around 5am, me leaning on his shoulder across the bed, knowing this may be the last time...funny how Dad would only fall asleep when he heard the dawn chorus...he was scared, even when drugged, of dying during the night and so would fight.
Thursday 19th April
I know that Dad is now hanging on for his sister. His breathing is laboured and you can hear the fluid in his lungs.
Aunt Mina turns up driven by her son Neil, from Chelmsford. Dad is basicially unconscious now, but he hears his sister's voice and grips her hand. She leaves, knowing that she'll never see him alive again.
Around 1 a.m, Darren and I tempt fate. For the first time in three nights, we attempt go to the Relatives room to catch a few hours sleep as the behest of the wonderful nurses and staff who assure us they will keep an eye on him for us. Not 10 minutes later, I have just changed into my pyjamas, and there is a knock at the door. I sprint down the corridor to my Dad's room, where his unconscious body is now desperately fighting to stay alive. All the nurses had done is turn him over, and his breathing changed. His eyes are bulging, wide like goldfish, as he gasps for every breath and physically racks for every breath from the oxygen mask. His face is drawn back, racked with pain....but I cannot see my dad inside those eyes...they are vacant.
At 03.50, the breaths get hard and harder and with one last gasp, black tar fluid gushes from his mouth, the very liquid he had been drowning in, caused by the cancer. I stay and stroke his head as Darren shouts for the nurse. They try to push us away, but we stay with him and hold his hand as my Dad slowly slips away, and the life-blood drains from his face.
His battle is over, such a brave and wonderful man. I desperately miss him and take comfort in that Darren, " Dad's wee pal" as he used to call him, and I were there. I also take comfort that he got to know his sister was there. I only wish he had managed to hang on for Trisha and Peter- who came down later that day from Scotland. But maybe is is better that they remember him for who he was to them...humourous, funny, told the same flippin' stories over and over...an interesting and loving man who shall be greatly missed by all those whose lives he touched.
Cheers Dad- I love you xxxxxx
