The Hardest Thing
written by: Steven Whitaker
The room stood dimly lit and quiet. Occasional sounds of conversation and soft electronic beeps drifted in through the large double door, accompanied by the bright corridor light, which served as the only thing illuminating the room. It was an oasis away from the rest of the ward.
He had sat there for about fifteen minutes, trying his hardest to stifle tears. It might have been fifteen minutes, but keeping track of time wasn’t of foremost concern.
Composing himself before concentrating on what had to happen, Craig dreaded what had to be done, even though he had no idea exactly what. The man lying in the bed next to him, dying, was Craig’s grandad, and this would be the last time he ever saw him. Any moment now, he needed to stand up, say some form of goodbye, walk out of the hospital and never see him again.
Always such a strong character in Craig’s life and a source of entertainment in the family, his troublesome youth and army life generated an endless stream of stories, both funny and inappropriate in equal measure. They did, however, mean that his grandchildren and great-grandchildren idolised him. The fact that the stories often blurred into fiction that even children could detect didn’t seem to stunt his popularity and, in all probability, increased it.
One of their favourite stories, which happened to be mostly true, centred on the time Grandad and a fellow soldier “found” a wagon load of condemned meat. After a profitable extracurricular mission to the nearest town, a not-insubstantial outbreak of food poisoning occurred that didn’t go undiscovered or unpunished by the military, but nobody ever dwelt on that part of the story when it got regaled so entertainingly.
Despite those inauspicious beginnings, he went on to educate himself enough to become heavily involved in the union at his bus depot, where his natural rebellious and righteous streak proved a real asset. More importantly, and perhaps the best thing that could be said of him, he was always around for his family.
Craig treasured the story of his grandparents’ relationship as resembling something out of a movie. They lived next door to each other as children, although love took time to form. A rude tearaway didn’t make the young girl swoon, but childish first steps gradually marched towards the physique and mentality of young adulthood. They began writing to each other during his service in the military, which blossomed into a courtship upon his return. Upon leaving the service, Grandad bought a motorbike and it featured, almost catastrophically, in their earlier dates. The first ride they shared saw them dismounted after cornering a little too sharply, escaping with only minor scrapes. As no serious damage to them or the bike could prove otherwise, Grandma had made Grandad promise not to tell anyone for fear of her parents’ interference in any further romantic involvement.
A whole collection of rose-tinted spectacles had been amassed for this man, but equally remembered were the frequent tactless and thoughtless comments handed out to everyone at some point. It all generally went over Craig’s head as a child. Children tend to be more naively accepting of people because they don’t fully appreciate what’s being said.
The one thing to always jar with Craig, even as a youngster, amounted to casual racism. Not sermon-thumping extremism, more generational ignorance and rudimentary xenophobia, presumably formed by upbringing and circumstance. Those kinds of ingrained prejudices are not uncommon in people from previous generations, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear or justify. Craig would always ignore it rather than confront or discuss anything. He always forgave but couldn’t forget. Perhaps something held true in that old saying that every generation rebels against their parents and makes peace with their grandparents, or perhaps because his family in general never seemed to discuss anything of much depth or importance. The adults had their opinions about any and everything all worked out, while conflicting perspectives invited ridicule or dismissal, or at least that’s how it often seemed to a young mind.
Regret reproached him for not having tried to say something rather than think it didn’t matter because it came out of an old person’s mouth. That certainly would have risked shattering the idyllic relationship between a grandchild and grandparent, but it might have made a difference for the better too. He sometimes wondered about phrases he currently used and those likely to cause disappointed head-shaking from future generations. He could only hope for some patient edification. Grandad too was a product of an environment, for better or worse.
Gentle snoring from another patient in the next bed came to an abrupt end with a snort that dragged Craig kicking and screaming back into the warm room.
He needed to act now.
He couldn’t sit there all night. Visiting hours ended shortly.
Time beckoned insistently, but still, he hesitated a few moments longer.
Even if Grandad was incognisant, he needed to do this, for himself at least, for closure.
With a few deep breaths and an immense effort, he stood up from his chair, legs simultaneously lead and jelly.
Telling himself he’d done the hard part failed to find much support.
Grandad had turned himself onto his side, facing the door and holding on to the metal bed rail, squeezing it repeatedly. Craig found hollow solace in hoping the squeezing represented Dementia’s strangulating grip rather than pain or fear. It seemed likely, as there hadn’t been any kind of acknowledgement of his greeting upon entering the room. He considered standing directly in front of Grandad, to help force some consciousness of his presence.
Each of the few short steps felt more daunting than the last.
Desperation for acknowledgement fought against his inability to grasp any meaningful words to say in the event of it happening. An indefinite age passed as Craig stood over him, staring, not knowing how long to wait or whether to bother. Noticing how small and frail his grandad looked curled up in bed like that, he contemplated leaving before the sadness of the situation engulfed him.
Then, slowly, Grandad raised his head and looked directly at him. Craig’s heart rose. His wish looked like being granted. Their eyes met but the anticipated flash of recognition didn’t materialise. Elation dashed. A flicker would have meant the world to Craig, but nothing. If Grandad indeed recognised his grandson, then he had neither the strength nor the wherewithal to acknowledge it.
Craig wanted to say so much, but he only managed to raise his hand in greeting along with a feeble smile, barely able to fight back the onslaught of tears. The frail shell of a man just as slowly lowered his head back down to the pillow and resumed gently squeezing the metal rail. Craig felt as though he’d let him down on his deathbed. He couldn’t even manage to say a few decent words to a man who meant so much. Not able to think of anything else to do, he instinctively reached out to hold the veiny hand and used his thumb to gently stroke it. For a moment, the repeated squeezing of the bedrail stopped. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the only kind of acknowledgement likely, and it made Craig think that at least Grandad knew somebody was there to comfort him.
“Goodbye.”
It only arrived as a whisper, and he had to force himself to say it, but he’d said it. He turned and left the room; half relieved, half devastated, and wanting to turn back. After walking only a few steps, he rested like a sack against the corridor wall to dry his tears and compose himself. The light in the corridor shone painfully bright and artificial, juxtaposing the dark, peaceful embrace of the previous room. At least nobody else occupied the corridor. They’d only ask if he was alright when he clearly wasn’t, or obliviously leave him to his grief that he didn’t know how to handle. He didn’t know which sounded worse, only that he didn’t want to deal with either. He needed to get away. Distraught, walking became an incredible effort.
He made it back to his car, unsure how. Those passing in the corridors, lift, and car park had barely registered his existence. Why would they? This was a hospital, and an upset relative an all too common sight. Many of them had much worse concerns over their own loved ones or themselves.
A blurred car journey. A long evening spent alone. He didn’t contact anyone and the thought never even occurred to him as he spent the rest of the night staring at the TV, rather than watching it, heartbroken and despondent.
- The Hardest Thing - May 16, 2025
