After the End(43)

“You’ve got enough to worry about, without stressing about money,” Dad said.

I searched his face for confirmation that I was doing the right thing, but he was as inscrutable as ever.

“No one else can decide this for you, Pip” is all he would say. “Not us, not Max.”

“Would you pay the legal fees if you thought I was wrong?”

“Yes,” Dad said simply. “Because that isn’t about doing what’s best for our grandchild, it’s about doing what’s best for our daughter.”

The requirement for a “second opinion” means that Dylan has been examined by four different doctors, including one engaged by his state-funded legal team. The reports are circulated as they come in, every team having full disclosure from the others ahead of the court case, which is fast approaching.

“I didn’t think it would all happen so quickly,” I said to the barrister, a breath before realising that of course it has to. Our very case is built on the reasoning that it is unkind to keep Dylan alive any longer.

I switch on the light. I’m going early to the hospital today. I don’t have much time left with Dylan, and there’s something I want to do with him. Something I want him to see, even if only once in his short life.

My jeans smell stale, and there’s a smear of dirt on the hem of one leg. I try to remember when I last washed my hair, had a shower. I have drifted from the hospital to home, from legal meetings to the hospital; self-care has been an afterthought. Dylan doesn’t mind, after all, so why should I?

I’m reminded of a time when I would sit on the bed and help Max pack, when I’d pick out ties and choose a shirt that would say I’m in control, trust me, hire me. War paint. Armour. I can’t change what’s happening, or what Max is doing, but I can change how I handle it.

Twenty minutes later I stand in front of the mirror on the landing and take a deep breath. Better. I feel stronger. My face is made up—powder, mascara, lipstick—and although I’m still wearing jeans, they are at least clean. Putting on a pair of heeled boots instead of the sheepskin ones I’ve worn for weeks makes me not just physically taller, but mentally so. I’m holding myself straight.

Downstairs, I drink orange juice because it’s quicker than waiting for tea to brew and then cool. I feel that familiar pull to be by my son’s side, and I leave the glass half-drunk, and drive to the hospital. The roads are still icy, and I reluctantly temper my eagerness to be with Dylan, to ensure I reach him at all. I practise what I’m going to say to the nurses. They’ll let me, I’m sure of it.



* * *





I’m sorry, Pip, it just isn’t possible.”

“Cheryl, please. He’s been in this room for six months. He hasn’t seen the sky in six months.” The windows in Room 1 are small and high—the view the grey brick wall of the adjacent building. Like a prison. Worse than a prison. “If the judge grants the order, we might only have a few weeks left with him. I want him to feel air on his cheeks again—hear the birds singing.”

Cheryl looks away. She bites her lip and I see her swallow. I hold my breath, but when she looks back she’s still shaking her head. “It’s too risky. We’d have to bring the monitor and—”

“It’s like going to the family room. Just a little further.” We used to go to the family room when the ward was quiet, and there were enough staff free to help move everything Dylan needed. We’d put cartoons on the TV and raise his pillows so he could watch, and I would choose not to see his glazed eyes, and instead gave a running commentary in the hope that he could hear my voice, and it would mean something to him.

“Cheryl, please. I’m begging you. Just a few minutes.” Once the order is granted the only medication Dylan will be given will be pain relief. If he arrests, he won’t be resuscitated.

“It’s too cold.”

“We’ll wrap him up.”

“I’m sorry.”

I grip the bars of Dylan’s cot. I was so convinced Cheryl would say yes. “Could you at least ask Dr. Khalili?”

Cheryl sighs. “Give me a minute.”

Dr. Khalili has the faintly dishevelled look of someone coming to the end of a long night shift. Her scrubs are stained and crumpled, and wisps of hair have escaped from her ponytail. She smooths a hand across Dylan’s forehead, then looks at me. “Ten minutes. And we stay with you all the time.”

My chest swells with relief and gratitude. “Thank you!” I look at the clock. “We need to—”

“We’ll go now.” She helps me wrap Dylan in open blankets, ready to cover him up as soon as we leave the warm ward. Porter Paul brings a wheelchair, and Cheryl readies the drip stand and a bag valve mask.

“Just in case,” she says briskly.

“Ready?”

I nod, but Dr. Khalili is addressing the others, not me. “We treat it like any other critical care transfer, OK?”

Paul grips the wheelchair. It is too big for Dylan, too unstructured, and he leans to one side, into the pillows we have placed around him. Easier than a trolley, Dr. Khalili said. Less conspicuous, too, I imagine. “Right, where to, madam?” Paul says.

“The bench by the staff accommodation block,” I say at once. “Beneath the big oak tree.”