Last year this date was on a Monday, I get to the hospital at about 2:30. Visiting time is between 2pm and 8pm. We are all taking it in turns to see you and speak to you. We know you can hear us. Not just because the doctors told us and it’s comforting to know but because Kawal and puji are in with you, one of your conditions is that your blood pressure is very low! I walk in say my usual ‘hello handsome!’ Puji said ‘Kiran keep talking your dads blood pressure just went up’! Kawal then said, ‘dad your nutcase has arrived’. You were the same ‘stable’ as they kept telling us. At about 4pm, Bubbly, Suman and I go to the canteen to get everyone teas and coffees. The place is empty apart from the barista serving at the counter. She takes our order of 8 drinks. I’m standing in-between Bubbly and Suman. Out of nowhere someone says ‘that’s a lot of drinks’. I look around to see who was talking to us, there next to Suman stood a very elderly lady about 80 years old. I asked her how many drinks she was getting. She told us one. We asked the barista if the lady could be served before us, but she had already started our order. This lady was very grateful for this gesture. She told us she was getting a hot drink for her son who is very poorly. She comes and visits him every day and always buys him a drink before she leaves. She asked who we were visiting. We told her our dad. She asked for your name. I told her it’s Surinder. Then between the 3 of us we told her your situation. We must have been talking for a good 5 minutes. At the end she said, ‘I’m going to say a prayer and light a candle for your dad, Surinder, that’s right, isn’t it? That’s his name?’ And as quickly as she came, she disappeared. We never saw her again I couldn’t believe she remembered your name. I felt, we felt that someone was looking after you.
Outside in the waiting room, we were chatting to our fuffer ji’s having a giggle just how you’d want us to be, not ‘miserable’ as you would say, because of you we got to know them so much more dad.
Dad, you’re not going to believe this though ! Well it’s me, so there’s no surprise there I guess! I asked them the same questions I asked you, dad you would’ve just shook your head apologizing but we also know you’d find it so funny! The replies from them were even more funnier than yours! One Fufferji said ‘I’m not paying for it’ and the other Fufferji said ‘it would not happen; it just wouldn’t happen!’. I’ll let you figure out who said what!
Puji, mum and us 4 sat in the canteen while the nurses did their routine checks, it was so surreal, you could tell we all felt worried and even scared, but you’ve always taught us to be positive and that’s what we did. I left at about 6 that evening to Uber it back, I know dad! You would’ve said ‘stop wasting your money I’ll be home soon!’.
Outside of your unit, we made friends with other relatives visiting their loved ones. No matter what your age, race or financial status you’re all in it together, praying for each other’s relative to get better, giving each other a nod, to me this was like code, you’re still poorly but you’re still with us, and you’d wait for their nod back. One man in particular hardly spoke English, but at times like this there’s only one language called hope. Every time we’d meet in the corridors or waiting area he’d ask after you. He was visiting his nephew, a stabbing victim only 25 years old, he was very poorly and fighting for his life.
There was a Sikh family whose loved one was so poorly that the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her. They gave you an MP3 player so you could listen to hymns. We made friends with the police who were standing outside different ICU’s to protect the victims of crime. They too all hoped and prayed for you to get better. The aura that surrounds you is something words can’t describe. These people who we met in the last few days, they hadn’t seen nor spoken to you, but it felt like we had known them forever.
This is what most people felt with you, and something we’ve just come to realise.