Man Up
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A widower reflects.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Man up,” you told me that morning, the last morning.
You were sitting up in bed, retching into the basin, the little plastic basin I had handed you after I woke you up and placed the two pillows behind you.
“Man up,” you said. “You don’t have to look so disgusted. It’s just a bit of bile. It’s those steroids. I knew they would do this to me, make me nauseous. Just live with it.”
I smiled and put the box of tissues on the bed next to the basin. I made sure you’d be able to reach the glass of water and the two pills I’d laid out on the bedside table. (Ironically, one of the pills was meant to stop you feeling sick.) Then I walked over to the window and opened the curtains.
Man up. I chuckled to myself as I stood looking out at the grey day. I had never heard you say that before. You had done it again, though; misinterpreted my facial expression. It was a look of concern, hen, not disgust. But I wasn’t going to argue with you. You were ill, for fuck’s sake. The cancer had returned. The bastard cancer. The steroids were a stopgap measure – to protect your liver, the doctor had explained – while you waited for the next course of chemo to start. The chemo would blitz the cancer a second time and everything would be okay.
But nothing was going to be okay again, was it? Your condition deteriorated throughout the course of the day and on into the night. I hovered around you all that time, making sure you were comfortable, had stuff to drink, sweeties to suck on. I kept asking if I should phone the doctor.
Around midnight, you finally agreed that I could call for help. A doctor came. Then an ambulance. They gave you morphine for the pain. I know you were desperate not to go into the hospital – that hospital – again. But you had to be treated, to be fixed.
It was three o’clock in the morning when they carried you out of the house. I followed them into the ambulance so that I could say cheerio to you.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.” Those were the last words you ever spoke to me.
I bent down and kissed you. Your lips were cold. Ice-cold.
You didn’t know it, but I was at your side less than two hours later. A phone call from the hospital woke me. A disembodied voice – young, soft, Irish – at the other end.
“It doesn’t look too good, sir,” it said. “I think it would be best if you made your way in.”
The doctor who came to the house, the ambulance people – none of them had said the situation was life-threatening. But suddenly your life was slipping away.
I stood at your bed in a daze. You were unconscious, breathing hoarsely. I held your hand and spoke to you, but I’m sure you didn’t hear me. Then the breathing stopped and your hand grew cold. You were gone. And for the first time in more than twenty-five years I was without you.
I walked out of the hospital and into the morning sunshine. In one hand I clutched the envelope they had given me, the envelope containing your death certificate. In the other I carried the bag I had packed for you only a few hours earlier, the bag I had handed to the ambulance man, the ambulance man who had said confidently, “There’s nothing else for you to do for the time being. Get yourself some sleep.”
I had packed that bag in a hurry, but I knew what was needed; I was used to it by then. Pants and little socks, nightwear tops and bottoms, a pair of slippers, a dressing gown, tissues, sweeties, your box of meds. Now I had them all back, along with the clothes you had been wearing stuffed in at the top of the bag. And the joke? The fucking joke? It was a fucking Asda bag for life.
The next few days passed quickly because I was kept busy. There were people to tell. And there were arrangements to make, so many arrangements. Registering the death. Booking the funeral. The coffin. The flowers. The car to take me there. The eulogy – I wrote and delivered it myself; I couldn’t let a stranger speak about you, I just couldn’t. And the music, of course. Strauss and Tchaikovsky – The Blue Danube and Swan Lake. When they played the music, a thousand memories of you came in a flood. It almost broke me, but I kept it together. Oh, fuck, hen, I manned up that day all right. For you.
But the days after the funeral were even worse. You told me many times that you didn’t want your family to come to your funeral. You said you hated them. You made me promise that they wouldn’t be there if you should die before me. I kept my promise, hen, but I had to tell them once it was all over. It would have haunted me if I hadn’t. So I plucked up the courage and contacted them. The news was treated with dignity, thank fuck. There were no recriminations, no histrionics.
And then there was your stuff. All your beautiful, pristine clothes; years’ worth of clothes. You had been intending for ages to give most of them to charity. Well, I did it for you, hen. Twelve black bags collected by Cancer Research. Twelve black bags full of coats and hats, boots and shoes, dresses and tops. Twelve fucking bags.
I passed the charity shop a week or so afterwards. The dress you wore when you married me twenty years ago, that stunning layered lace dress with its waist impossibly narrow for most of the women living round here – it was there, taking pride of place in the shop window. I stood for a long time staring at the dress, remembering. It broke my heart.
The next time I passed the window, the dress was gone. It had moved on, begun a new life. I need to move on as well, to begin a new life without you. But before I do, there’s something I have to know. Did I do all right by you, hen? Did I man up enough for you?
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A widower reflects.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Man up,” you told me that morning, the last morning.
You were sitting up in bed, retching into the basin, the little plastic basin I had handed you after I woke you up and placed the two pillows behind you.
“Man up,” you said. “You don’t have to look so disgusted. It’s just a bit of bile. It’s those steroids. I knew they would do this to me, make me nauseous. Just live with it.”
I smiled and put the box of tissues on the bed next to the basin. I made sure you’d be able to reach the glass of water and the two pills I’d laid out on the bedside table. (Ironically, one of the pills was meant to stop you feeling sick.) Then I walked over to the window and opened the curtains.
Man up. I chuckled to myself as I stood looking out at the grey day. I had never heard you say that before. You had done it again, though; misinterpreted my facial expression. It was a look of concern, hen, not disgust. But I wasn’t going to argue with you. You were ill, for fuck’s sake. The cancer had returned. The bastard cancer. The steroids were a stopgap measure – to protect your liver, the doctor had explained – while you waited for the next course of chemo to start. The chemo would blitz the cancer a second time and everything would be okay.
But nothing was going to be okay again, was it? Your condition deteriorated throughout the course of the day and on into the night. I hovered around you all that time, making sure you were comfortable, had stuff to drink, sweeties to suck on. I kept asking if I should phone the doctor.
Around midnight, you finally agreed that I could call for help. A doctor came. Then an ambulance. They gave you morphine for the pain. I know you were desperate not to go into the hospital – that hospital – again. But you had to be treated, to be fixed.
It was three o’clock in the morning when they carried you out of the house. I followed them into the ambulance so that I could say cheerio to you.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.” Those were the last words you ever spoke to me.
I bent down and kissed you. Your lips were cold. Ice-cold.
You didn’t know it, but I was at your side less than two hours later. A phone call from the hospital woke me. A disembodied voice – young, soft, Irish – at the other end.
“It doesn’t look too good, sir,” it said. “I think it would be best if you made your way in.”
The doctor who came to the house, the ambulance people – none of them had said the situation was life-threatening. But suddenly your life was slipping away.
I stood at your bed in a daze. You were unconscious, breathing hoarsely. I held your hand and spoke to you, but I’m sure you didn’t hear me. Then the breathing stopped and your hand grew cold. You were gone. And for the first time in more than twenty-five years I was without you.
I walked out of the hospital and into the morning sunshine. In one hand I clutched the envelope they had given me, the envelope containing your death certificate. In the other I carried the bag I had packed for you only a few hours earlier, the bag I had handed to the ambulance man, the ambulance man who had said confidently, “There’s nothing else for you to do for the time being. Get yourself some sleep.”
I had packed that bag in a hurry, but I knew what was needed; I was used to it by then. Pants and little socks, nightwear tops and bottoms, a pair of slippers, a dressing gown, tissues, sweeties, your box of meds. Now I had them all back, along with the clothes you had been wearing stuffed in at the top of the bag. And the joke? The fucking joke? It was a fucking Asda bag for life.
The next few days passed quickly because I was kept busy. There were people to tell. And there were arrangements to make, so many arrangements. Registering the death. Booking the funeral. The coffin. The flowers. The car to take me there. The eulogy – I wrote and delivered it myself; I couldn’t let a stranger speak about you, I just couldn’t. And the music, of course. Strauss and Tchaikovsky – The Blue Danube and Swan Lake. When they played the music, a thousand memories of you came in a flood. It almost broke me, but I kept it together. Oh, fuck, hen, I manned up that day all right. For you.
But the days after the funeral were even worse. You told me many times that you didn’t want your family to come to your funeral. You said you hated them. You made me promise that they wouldn’t be there if you should die before me. I kept my promise, hen, but I had to tell them once it was all over. It would have haunted me if I hadn’t. So I plucked up the courage and contacted them. The news was treated with dignity, thank fuck. There were no recriminations, no histrionics.
And then there was your stuff. All your beautiful, pristine clothes; years’ worth of clothes. You had been intending for ages to give most of them to charity. Well, I did it for you, hen. Twelve black bags collected by Cancer Research. Twelve black bags full of coats and hats, boots and shoes, dresses and tops. Twelve fucking bags.
I passed the charity shop a week or so afterwards. The dress you wore when you married me twenty years ago, that stunning layered lace dress with its waist impossibly narrow for most of the women living round here – it was there, taking pride of place in the shop window. I stood for a long time staring at the dress, remembering. It broke my heart.
The next time I passed the window, the dress was gone. It had moved on, begun a new life. I need to move on as well, to begin a new life without you. But before I do, there’s something I have to know. Did I do all right by you, hen? Did I man up enough for you?
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.