Peter Be Sensible

At 97, Dad’s still with us. It wasn’t going to be, a few Fridays ago. His breathing had gone deep and low, and the nursing home told us all to get there in a hurry.

Fran and I were greeted by our middle two sisters, advising us he’d stabilised and improved his breathing in the last half hour. A resting heart rate of 45bpm and a blood pressure of 75 over 53 weren’t going to cut it. He’d started going blue before rallying.

Just the two of us sat with Dad. We told him what a wonderful Dad he’s been. It didn’t matter to us there was nothing left in the tank. We talked about Mum and the treasures to be revealed afresh every time the nearby family photo albums were re-opened. I recalled how many of the warm-toned matt-finish photos were taken on his fancy new Agfa Instant Camera.

It was an Agfamatic 4000 pocket camera. I can’t remember the black, blockish thing it must have replaced. It was retired without ceremony, whatever it was. All I knew was this beautiful new camera. I didn’t care it took basic quality shots. I was a child. I only had to love how Dad would task me with recording those family holiday moments in Moore River, Esperance and other places. The Agfa was German-made, so a guaranteed tactile delight, from its smooth, rounded silver-finished body to the precise clickety-clack feel of pushing its body end to end to move the reel along to take a new photo. There was no obfuscation with the orange shoot button, either. Click. Better still, a German ‘click’. I got this, Dad.

During our bedside reminiscing, I had a deep sense of urgency to see if Paul and Susan were nearby. They were 4 minutes away. I told Dad. We needed him to hang in a bit longer. His eyes flickered. His mouth, drawn and set agape in the manner of someone taking their last breaths, feebly began to move, lips meeting the other repeatedly to make an inaudible ‘b’ sound.

“Better get up, then”, he said on the fourth go with Big Ben clarity. Panic Stations! I ran out of the room to call for nurses. Two of them saw me immediately and went ashen-faced. They foreshadowed the worst. But their subject only wanted sandwiches.

By the time Paul and Susan had arrived, there was merriment all round and a life-giving blood pressure of 140 over 75. We left the old man to enjoy his lunch and went off elsewhere to have ours.

Jonathan and I paid him a visit the weekend after. With our first fine and temperate weather in months, we enjoyed afternoon tea in the cafe downstairs, where these photos were taken.

This week, I’ll be able to have Christmas lunch with him and Paul. We’re realists. We think it will be the last, and one to cherish.