Said in Fear
Hannah sat in the corridor of the surgical ward, tightly clutching a folded piece of paperblood results, lists, referralsin her palm, as though it might just keep all the uncertainty confined to the space of that A4 sheet. Along the wall were rows of plastic chairs. There was a muted telly on above the coat rackthe news ticker loitered at the bottom, scrolling through headlines that meant nothing to her right now. She stood up when the nurse poked her head round the door.
Family of Peter Edwards? Could you come through, please?
Hannah went first, her brother Tom right on her heels. He hadnt changed since rushing over in the nightsame jacket, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was afraid theyd betray a tremble.
Their father was in a raised hospital bed, knees visible beneath the blanketthe same odd angle he always fidgeted into when he was trying to get comfy. Beside him stood a jug of water, his folder of documents, a neatly folded t-shirt. He looked at them both as if to smile, but he was rationing his strength.
Well then, he said, his voice quiet, hows things out there?
Hannah perched tentatively on the edge of a chair, careful not to loom over him. She wanted to sound brisk and confident, but her tongue didnt want to work.
Were here. Its all right. Theyll have you sorted and she trailed off.
Tom bent closer, as if shielding his dad from the world.
Dad, you just hold on, yeah? Well sort everything. Ill come up whenever they need me.
He left whenever needed hanging, and Hannah felt how both of them were clinging to those words. The doctor yesterday had been brisk, understatedthe kind that made Hannah hear risk in every pause. The fear pulled them tight, like glue that sticks long after it should.
Tom, she said, not looking at their dad, lets just not argue about it, all right? Whatever happens, well work it out. Youre not bailing, and neither am I. We stick.
Tom noddedtoo sharply.
I promise. Ill be here. If anything needs doing, Ill do it. Okay? His words were for their father, but his eyes fixed on Hannah, sealing it between them too.
Their dad looked at one, then the other. His knuckles, dry and warm, creased the edge of the sheet.
No grand promises, he murmured. Just dont fight.
Hannah wanted to promise they wouldnt, to say they were grown-ups and understood. Instead, she covered her dads hand with her own, thinking that if she just said the right thing, the surgery might be easier for him.
Well manage, she said. Well do what needs doing.
When their dad was wheeled away, Hannah and Tom were left alone in the corridor; that promise clung to them like a lucky charm. They repeated it silently, so as not to crack. Hannah texted her husband a quick line about staying longer and put her mobile on silent. Tom called work, said he was taking the day unpaid, though Hannah knew things werent steady for him anyway.
The operation dragged on longer than theyd hoped. When the surgeon arrived, he looked exhausted, peeling off his mask. Weve done all we can. The next 24 hours are crucial. He didnt say everythings fine, and Hannah latched desperately onto every word like stable.
Hell need plenty of care, managed medication, observation, the consultant added. No quick turnarounds Im afraid.
Hannah nodded, like she was in double mathsnot wanting to miss a word. Tom asked about physio, timeframes, when home would be possible. The replynot soonlanded as a new weight; even then, home would be hard work.
In the early days after the op, Hannahs life shrunk to train trips, updates, deliveries, dashes home. She memorised the visiting hours, the names of the ward assistants, the number of the GPs office responsible for prescriptions. She had the drug list on her phone, but copied it to her notepad toophones die, notepads dont.
Tom visited every other day, sometimes late, once it was dark. Hed bring fruit, bottled water, incontinence padswhatever Hannah had texted over. He tried for upbeat, but his voice died down in the ward, as if he feared saying too much.
Their father kept his dignity. Never complained. Sometimes just asked for his pillow straight or a drink. When pain hit, he closed his eyes, breathing slow and measured the way hed been taught after his heart attack. Hannah watched him, thinking how dignity itself was its own slog.
Two weeks in, their dad was moved to the standard ward; a week latertalk of discharge started. Relief and dread collided in Hannah. In the hospital, everything was mapped outmeds, checks, routines. At home, that timetable would be their job.
Discharge day, Hannah showed up with her husband, a folding stick borrowed from next door, and a bag of fresh clothes. Tom said hed meet them at the flats to help with the stairsthree flights, no lift. But he didnt make it.
Hannah stood at the block entrance, gripping keys and forms. Her dad sat on the bench, worn out by travel, trying not to show it. Her husband kept glancing at his watch.
Hell be here any minute, Hannah muttered, but she no longer believed it.
Tom picked up after a few rings.
Sorry Han, Im stuck in traffic, major pileup on the bridge. Im just not going to make it. Maybe you could figure something?
A hot surge rolled up inside her.
Figure something? Tom, you promised
Ill be over this evening, honest, I will. Just cant now.
Hannah didnt argue in front of their dad. Between her husband, a helpful neighbour snagged outside, and herself, they got him up those stairs. Their father was short of breath, but didnt complain. Inside, Hannah immediately stashed meds on the side table, mentally listing things shed need to childproofremoving rugs, checking corners.
That night, Tom arrived after darkguilty face and a punnet of clementines in hand.
So, hows it going? He acted as if the morning had never happened.
Hannah laid out the plan: morning tablets, midday tablets, injections every other day, wound checks, blood pressure logs. Her voice was flatto let any break show would be a disaster.
I can do weekends, Tom said, but weekdaysI mean, you know how it is.
She did know. His job could cut his hours at any time. He had a wife, a toddler, a mortgage, that deep-down English dread of not making ends meet. Hannah had all that too, in her own way: two kids in school, a husband sick of her never being around, a boss side-eyeing her lateness.
The first weeks at home became a grey fog of tasks. Hannah rose firstmeds for her dad, blood pressure, porridge without salt. Shed wake the kids, pack lunches, ask her husband to get extra bits from Tesco, sprint to work. At lunchtime: a check-in callhad her dad eaten? Was he dizzy? After work, she queued at the chemist, where the right medicine was never in stock, and the chemist always urged a similar option, which terrified her.
Tom kept his promisesort of. He came over most weekends, helped take the rubbish out, did a big shop, sat with their dad while Hannah cooked. But he always kept one eye on the clock.
Ive got to get off, he said, loads to do at ours.
Hannah nodded, but inside something squirmed. She wasnt counting who did more, but the tally started adding itself.
One night, after her dad was asleep, Hannah stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing plates. The water was too hother fingers scalded pink. Her husband sat at the table, quietly nursing his tea.
You cant go on like this, he said eventually. Youre knackered. The kids barely see you.
She switched off the tap.
And what would you have me do?
Get a carer. Even a few hours a day. Or Tom could take a couple of weekdays.
She pictured telling Tom about a carer and could already hear his reply: We cant afford that. She didnt know if they could. Every pound was already earmarked for something.
The next morning, her dad asked for help to the bathroom. He shuffled slowly, bracing against the wall; Hannahs hands shook with the effort of supporting him. Once he was on the shower stool, he looked up at her.
Youre worn out, he remarked.
Its all right, she replied.
All right is when you smile without forcing it.
She turned away, not wanting him to see her eyes glisten. Shame at her own fatigueit felt like a betrayal.
A month after discharge, it became clear: recovery was slow. Her dad could potter about the flat, but tired quickly. He needed help with the shower, needed reminders for water and pills. He did his best, but wound up confused with all the packets.
Hannah asked Tom to come round one Wednesday night so she could go to parents evening at her sons school. Tom agreed.
That Wednesday, he didnt show.
He texted: Cant do it, kid has a fever. Hannah stared at it, something snapping inside her. She couldnt be angry about a sick childbut the anger found a way anyway.
She didnt go to parents evening. She sat in the kitchen, staring at her sons exercise book, the part for her parents signature, feeling like her life was a bundle of other peoples needs with little space for her own.
Saturday, Tom turned up as if nothing had happened, straight into chat about battling his sons temperature all night, how knackered his wife was.
I get it, Hannah said. I really do.
Tom eyed her, wary.
But? he said.
Hannah picked up the notebook with all the medical lists.
You promised, Tom. Back in the hospital. You said youd take this on. Do you remember?
It sounded harsher than shed planned. She could see him tense.
I do come, though. Its not like I do nothing.
You come when it works for you, Hannah said. But I need help when I need it, not when you fancy it. See the difference?
Tom flushed.
Do you think its easy for me? He snapped. Dont you think Im worried too? I have a family as wella jobtheyd sack me in a heartbeat. I cant just quit everything.
And you think I can? Hannahs voice rose. Leave my kids, my job, my husband? Lie awake all night when Dads ill, then smile for my boss at work in the morning? Is that what you think?
From the next room, their dad coughed. Hannah fell silentbut it was too late. Tom stepped closer.
You said we wont walk away back there, remember? he said quietly, accusation buried in his tone. You always do this. You take it all on, then get angry that no one keeps up with you.
Hannah felt emptied out, seeing herself as someone who always grabbed the reinsterrified of disaster, frustrated others didnt match her pace.
Im not strong, she whispered. I just dont know any other way to be.
Tom looked down.
I dont either. That promise in the hospitalI just said Id handle it because I thought if I didnt, Dad well He broke off.
Hannah dropped into a chair, her hands shaking.
We made those promises out of fear, she said. And now were taking it out on each other.
Tom didnt reply. Their father coughed again, and Hannah went in. He was lying flat, staring at the ceiling.
Dont be fighting about me, he said, eyes fixed upward.
Were not arguing, Dad, Hannah fibbed.
He turned, gazed at her directly.
Im not daft. And I dont want to be the reason you turn on each other.
Hannah sat beside him.
We dont hate each other, Dad.
Then come to an arrangement, he said. Not with talk. In practice. That everyone can manage.
The next week, Hannah booked an appointment with their dads GP at the clinic. She got the form online, printed it off with all the notes in an orderly folder. Tom agreed to comeby then, Hannah was spent. In the appointment, the doctor scanned the notes, asked questions, stayed calm. No promises of miracles, but no gloom either.
And whos taking care of you at home? the doctor asked.
Hannah and Tom glanced at one another.
I am, Hannah said quietly.
And Im helping, Tom added.
The GP nodded.
You need a plannot heroics. Social care is available. Carers can be funded partly, sometimes more. And the main carer needs breaks, otherwise youll end up as a patient yourself.
Hannah heard permission in those wordsnot an excuse, but actual, official, English permission to let go of the must do everything mentality.
After the surgery, they stopped at the council office to get more info. In the queue, Hannah and Tom stood side by side, documents in hand, both actually doing something together, no sniping. Tom asked the clerk how much a carer cost for a few hours. He even opened the calculator app on his phone.
That night, they held a family meeting at Hannahs kitchen table. Their dad sat, bundled in his old fleece. He listened closely. Hannahs husband made tea for everyone and joined in, as if volunteering as backup.
Hannah opened the notepad.
This is how its going to beno more always or never. We need a rota. And money. And limits.
Tom nodded.
I can do two eveningsTuesday and Thursday. After work, Ill sit with Dad, do whats needed. You cango out, nap, whatever.
A slow wave of relief washed over Hannah.
Deal, she said. On those nights, Ill switch off. Nothing but the kidsor just my own rest. And weekends? You take one full daystart to finish. Ill be with the kids, my husband, or just out. I wont check in every hour.
Tom grinned.
Deal.
Her husband chipped in.
As for the carer: We can split it for three hours a day during the week. I can cover some, but we need to be honest about the cost.
Tom winced.
I cant match half, honestly. But I can put in a set amount a month. Plus, I can cover medicine thats not on NHS scripts.
Hannah made a note. She wanted to say, You need to do more, but she caught herself, remembering how that always went wrong.
All right, she said. Ill handle the arrangementscalls, bookings, paperwork. You take those two nights, one weekend day, the medicine and your share for the carer. No one keeps score of whos more tired. We follow the plan.
Their dad coughed and raised a hand.
And let me help too, he said. Ill do my rehab, keep track of my meds if you put them in a weekly box. If somethings wrong, Ill say sowont keep it to myself all night.
Hannah looked at him and saw not just a patient, but a man reclaiming some independence. That mattered.
The next day, she went to Boots and found a days-of-the-week pill box. At home, she filled the slots, marked morning and night in sharpie, put it next to his water on the bedside table. Her dad flicked at the lids, testing them, as if wondering if it was real help.
On Tuesday, Tom showed up. He kicked off his shoes, washed his hands, sat with their dad. Hannah pointed out where everything was: clean pads, thermometers, phone numbers for the GP and an ambulanceno trace of accusation, just passing the keys.
Im off, she said, waiting a beat in the hallway, listening. Inside, Tom chatted with their dad about the news; her dad gave short answers, but even managed a laugh.
She walked down the street, no destination in mind. Past the playground, through the estate. Her body was still knotted, braced for someone to call her back. But nobody did.
An hour later, she returned. The flat was quiet. Tom sat in the kitchen, sipping tea.
All fine, he said. Dads asleep. He made his own brewdrank half. Took his pills; I just reminded him.
Hannah nodded.
Thanks.
He looked at her.
Listenabout those promises. I dont want them hanging over us. I just want to do what I can, and you to knowyoure not alone. And Im not ducking out.
She felt something, finally, let go inside.
I dont want vows either. I just want it to make sense. For us to actually livenot just get by.
Tom closed her notepad gently.
Lets stick to the plan. If something changes, we flag it early. No cold wars.
Hannah walked him out, double-locked the door, double-checked the hall lights. She peeked in on her fatherhe slept sound and more peaceful than he had in hospital. The water and pill box were on the table, everything in place.
She sat on his beds edge, adjusting his blanket. There was no feeling of victoryjust the quiet sense that, for now, theyd found a way not to break each other in the process of trying to save him.
On the kitchen counter sat the rota: Tuesday, Thursday, Saturdaytimes, whos paying what, the carers number. Not a vow to fix everything. Just the simple, practical hope that this might get them through tomorrowand the next day too.
