What happened before this, I cannot tell you because I cannot remember.
I can tell you I was with her.
In the metallic green Nissan Skyline driving up Sparks Road, passing Johnny’s Roti.
Up the road then down and around the corner passing Overport City, arriving at McCord Hospital.

 PUBLIC PARKING TURN LEFT
PRESS BUTTON FOR PARKING TICKET
0-1 HOUR = FREE
1-2 HOURS = R 8.00

Parking Lot

She found a spot and I waited for her outside the car while she shook her handbag listening for coins. She turned in her seat and looked at me leaning on the boot, then rubbed her fingers together and her mouth said something like, “Do you have any change on you?”
I tapped my pockets, “Nope.”

Ground Floor

We entered through the sliding glass doors and found the lifts, joined the male nurse who bent over to rest his elbows on the handles of his patient’s wheelchair. A woman sat in a thin hospital gown with fluffy satin slippers, white thinning hair smoothed back and twisted into a low hanging bun. With a jumpy jaw she nodded and raised her eyebrows in conversation with the door.

First Floor

Sellotape held down a small cotton ball in the crease of her arm, but the purple patch beneath told me she wasn’t doing too well. He turned his face left to look at me and slowly dragged himself upright. Smiled and winked at me.

One gold canine and his nametag read Nathi. He looked about thirty and didn’t mind my school uniform.

Second Floor

She didn’t notice, she was still thinking about the R 8.00.

Third Floor

We got to the third floor and walked into the Men’s Section, passing rows of tall powder blue curtains framing each bed, some partially open, allowing glimpses of families huddled around husbands or sons. And there we were, a mother and daughter searching for our father.

He was there, right at the end, now no more than 50 kgs, white beard more shaggy than I have ever seen in all my twelve years. Catheter hung off the side of his bed with a milky sediment building below dark urine. Same sellotape on his arms, same bruising, same jumpy jaw.

Oncology Unit

He can’t speak much anymore, so now he cries when we arrive. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for one hour we sit quietly crying holding his cold hand.

We’ve stopped asking, “How are you today?”

The response is always loud crying, head shaking and followed by him using my arm to pull himself upright, grabbing me by both shoulders and bringing his face secretly to my ear, “Babyshoes, bring me my gun.”

“Dad. I can’t. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“Please my girl! PLEASE!” on and on.

Nurses rush in, the other families stare through the curtain gaps. We’re pushed aside, they increase the morphine drip and he begins to fall asleep. Nothing left for us to do but leave and if we leave right now the parking will hopefully still be free.