I’ve been fighting
with a post about why the release of “John Stanton - Agent of the Crown” (in
release at Amazon and others
as I write this) has been delayed. The reasons for this were very personal and
I wasn’t sure whether I should post them, but now I want to do it. My grief has
subsided somewhat and it is such a perfect example of how real life can
intervene with your work and plans.
In the middle of
March, I thought I’d have more spare time for writing and wouldn’t be as
hurried about editing and releasing again as I’d been with “Death Dealer” in February (when
a severe cold conspired against me and I basically managed to finish editing on
the last possible date). I’d been playing driver for my parents a lot in
February and March so far, but things were easing up and I was looking forward
to getting into the third Black Knight Agency novel or writing that Fantomas
novel I’d plotted already (as far as I do plotting at all).
Everything seemed fine
on the Wednesday on which I drove my mum to a specialist in Durlach. She was in
a good mood and was in relatively good health (she’s not been as fit as before
after her surgery where they removed half her lung because of cancer). She
mentioned she might have caught the same cold which had first put me and then
my dad down, but up to Sunday of that week, everything still seemed fine. She
was a little under the weather, but the same had surely been true for my dad
and me - and her breathing was still rather fine as well.
On Monday afternoon,
she was admitted to hospital - and to the intensive care unit, too. Still, my
dad and I thought she’d caught another bout of pneumonia (she’d had several
since the surgery, but recovered of each) and she would be fine again in a few
days or a week. During the night from Monday to Tuesday, they had to revive her
twice and that was when the drama took up speed. After she’d been revived, they
put her in an artificial coma (planned for about three days), because her lungs
were full of pus. They removed the pus and everything looked cautiously
optimistic. Needless to say, though, I didn’t get to do any writing, what with
driving around daily and what with the worries.
End of the week, she
was transferred to another hospital closer to home, but not because of that.
After being revived, her kidneys hadn’t started working again (which can
happen, it can even take several weeks for them to restart) and she needed
dialysis. Because of her overall constitution, they didn’t want to do the
regular variety (which takes about 5 hours, but also takes quite a strain on
the body) and the other hospital had a machine for a constant, 24-hour
dialysis. So mum was transferred - and she had to be revived again on the way,
something we only learned about much later.
Mum didn’t really
recover, her body bloating more and more from the water which wasn’t removed by
the kidneys. The bladder wasn’t working, because it didn’t get any fluid to
work with. Dialysis didn’t do as much good as we’d all hoped. Yet, for about a
week, we held on to the hope that the kidneys would start working again and
everything would get better. So what, if they’d never return to full work? Mum
could go to a regular dialysis - much younger people sometimes are forced to do
so for a long time. We were sure everything would get better at some point.
Until the Saturday a
little over a week after she’d been transferred. Her heart was getting
problematic, they’d had to revive her again. Mum was dying. On Sunday, Easter
Sunday and 1st of April, to be more precise, we had to make the hard decision
to let her go. Mum had never wanted to live only by machines and that was what
it was coming to. She still fought death for well over seven hours after they’d
taken her off all machines and only left her with a simple breathing mask. She
was on morphine, so she wouldn’t feel the hard breathing too much, but that was
all. Around half past nine in the evening, we got the call that she had gone -
around two, she’d been taken off the machines and we’d been in the hospital
with her for ages, hoping to guard her until she had passed. Perhaps she would
have fought less, had she not felt us nearby.
But problems didn’t
end there. It was the beginning of April, so no reason for me not to do my job
in May, right? Wrong. Dad became my new focus. My parents had lived in their
120 m² flat for 54 years. It was too big for him alone. It was too full of
memories. It was on the third floor (fourth for you Americans). And my
mastermind personality came out to play, as it is wont to in situations like
this one. I remembered the noises in the stairwell during the two days before.
Two floors above me, the tenants of one flat had moved out during the long
Easter weekend. The place wasn’t fit for my dad, though, he needed something on
the ground floor. So should I try to scare away my next-door neighbours? No,
that would take too long. Instead, I started to realize there still was a
solution: I could move upstairs and my dad could have my flat - ground floor,
two big rooms, big kitchen, nice bathroom, separate toilet. An ideal place for
one person, as I’d already known for the fourteen years I’d lived in the flat.
I talked to him about that when we picked up the few personal effects my mum
had had with her. He was hopeful it might work.
The next day, Tuesday,
I called my landlord, playing several cards to twist things my way: my mum’s
death, my own long time in the house, the fact that he knew my dad, too. It
worked out. On Wednesday, we had a chance to see the flat and I fell in love
with the room at the end of the hallway. And the landlord told us that we had
until Friday to consider everything and that he would prefer us to someone he’d
not known before. On Friday, I called him, telling him I’d take the flat
upstairs and my dad would take my flat - once the floor was exchanged (wall-to-wall
carpet in the hallway and the normal rooms which had been in it longer than I’d
lived there). We came to an agreement.
I had until the end of
the month to organize my own move, so the floor could be done and my dad could
move in, too. I had no time to write or consider doing anything else. I needed
to find a company to move my furniture. I needed to organize the move of my
internet and landline connection. I needed to do a hundred different things
with my dad to get my mum settled in her new urn space. I’m still not
completely sure how I managed everything, but on the 26th, I officially moved
upstairs (meaning my furniture did, other stuff had done before or would after
that day). About a month later, my dad moved into my old place, a little
hurried, but he’s still much happier there.
I was without internet
for three weeks, due to some screw-ups I had no control over. I’m still without
a couch (we got the same one, my dad and I, but there’s been difficulties with
the delivery, so it might take another month). I still have to put a few things
up. But on the whole, I’m in my new flat and my dad is in his.
Other things have
changed long-term. My dad is coming upstairs every day around two for a cup of
tea and some time together with me. He’s not been on his own for 54 years now (that’s
the time my parents were married, they were together for 56 years). He’s not
quite as introverted as I am, either. Currently, he’s also coming upstairs to
watch TV with me in the evening (when having the couch would be really nice),
but he’ll be staying in his flat in the evening when he’s got his own internet
back, weekends and holidays notwithstanding. I finally have my car next to the
house, we’ll sell the old flat, which belongs to us and wasn’t rented. Last
Saturday, they removed the rest of the stuff, now it’s empty.
Since I’m a night owl,
I don’t mind my dad being around for two hours in the afternoon. I rarely start
writing for real before four or five in the afternoon, so having my dad around
before that time isn’t hurting my work. But I usually write in the evening and
that doesn’t work out too well with my dad being around for about two hours
then as well. It was unreasonably hot for the season recently, too, and I didn’t
get to work on the editing as constantly as I would have liked to. Now I’m
done, however, and the release process is running.
I will take a few days to rest and reset, then I will start writing
again. Let this be a cautionary tale, though. Life has a way of crossing all
your plans in the most horrible ways.
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