The Last Wish
Im trying to steady my breathing, but everything hurts and I cant shake the thought that Ill never get to see Emily again. Id wanted to propose to her this week. No grand gestures now, only this cold NHS gown and the dull smell of antiseptic. Why me? I think, as if the universe might answer.
The nurse notices me turning pale and tries for warmth: Dont fret so, love, youll be alright. But I doubt it, and I manage a weak smile, more out of habit than reassurance.
Hospitals never agreed with me, not even as a child. In fact, I loathed them. The earliest memories Ive got are full of pinpricks, white corridors, and an utter absence of apology for any pain. I can still hear the nurse from childhood, stern and half-amused: Come on, Henry, big boys about to start school shouldnt cry over a finger prick. Shame, really.
Shame never entered into it. I cried because it hurt, because I thought adults should understand. And all the way home from the GPs, Id rant to Mum that Id sooner die than set foot in a clinic again.
Shed placate me in her soft voice. Doctors are here to help, Henry, to keep you well. But I thought, let them treat themselves and leave me alone.
You can imagine the scene at the dentist, parents dragging me in for a tooth extraction. My protest wailed down the whole Crescent, even with the windows closed. Hardly warm memories.
So its no surprise that, as an adult, I avoided anything medical like the plague. I was almost fanatical in keeping away from doctors surgeries, but fate, as ever, had other plans.
Yesterdays pain blindsided me. I was supposed to take Emily out for dinner, the ring burning a hole in my jacket pocket, when out of nowhere I nearly collapsed. Emily called 999, refusing to heed my desperate mutters that the pain would eventually pass.
So here I am, under the strip lights of St. Marys Hospital, London, clinging to hope and clutching my side. I could see my future; the surgeons picking over my insides, voices cold and distant, just like the silent porters moving a covered trolley past me. The finality of it sent a chill through me.
As they wheeled me to theatre, the nurse gave another generous smile: Its a routine procedure youll soon be right as rain. If youd waited, that mightve been serious.
Truthfully, the operation held no horrors in the endat least none I remembered. I woke up, woozy but intact. The ordeal had lost its teeth. For the first time since childhood, I had a good NHS experience, even sleeping in peace through the night, waking only for the nurse to check on me.
By morning, there was someone else in my rooma frail old man. My first petty thought: Please dont be chatty. I just want peace and quiet. I texted Emily that I was all right and put my phone away. My proposal plans, the music, the table bookingall pointless now. Instead, I lay in hospital pyjamas with a stranger for company.
Surprisingly, the old chap kept to himself, muttering into his phone, frustrated at the lack of response. He called out all day; after his battery died, there were tears. Suddenly, I felt a sting of guilt. Clearly something weighed heavy on the man, while Id been making snap judgments.
After a good while, I sat up and asked if he was alright.
Its my son I cant reach, the man replied. Nurse rung him when I came in, but wed rowed months ago. He wanted to stick me in a care home and sell off my place. Hed had a heart attack and was in for surgery. He feared hed die before it could happen.
I tried for reassurance: Come on, youre in the right place. I just had my appendix whisked out and look at me, chipper as ever.
He chuckled and talked about his real concerna little dog called Biscuit, stuck out on the street during all this.
He explained how, on his lonely birthday last year, hed found Biscuit tied up outside a corner shop in the rain. No one came. She pulled on her lead, looked for me, just like my late wife did in a dream the night beforehanding me her dog for company. In the end, he kept Biscuit, a companion through the emptiness.
Biscuit became all he had, more than a dog, more than a friendhis reason to face each day. I listened and felt my cynicism buckle. The man was desperate for his son to take Biscuit in, or, at least, find her a kind home now that he was so frail.
That night, I dreamt oddly of a little corgi trotting through rainy London streets, searchingthe dog was looking for something desperately. And there I was, following, not sure why but certain it mattered.
I woke to the old man gasping for air, clutching his chest. I leapt up. Should I call the nurse or try to reach his son?
Phone my son, James, he managed. I want to say goodbye. His numbers on the bedside table. And tell himif he cant come, just see to Biscuit. Thats all I want.
With trembling hands, I rang the number. Is this James? Im Henry, Im in the hospital room with your dad George Wilkins. Hed like to see you, its urgent.
Is he dying? the son asked flatly. Which ward? I gave all the details, feeling sick as I hung up and ran for the nurse.
The night nurse was half asleep but soon woke to act. By the time she and the duty doctor came, George Wilkins was gone. The doctor checked his pulse carefully, then left with a weary sigh.
The next day, James arrived, as perfunctory as can be, only just about managing, So he went quickly, did he? Saved us all trouble. I have my own family, work. People get old, what can you do? I mentioned Biscuit, Georges last request.
He shrugged. That dog? Whod want it? Dad refused the care home because of that mutt. Couldve been sorted if not for her. Well, house is mine now, anyway.
He swept up his fathers battered old phone and the scrap of paper, not glancing at me, not saying goodbye.
I lay back and thought: How is it that a man who lived seventy-seven years, and could have made it to ninety, met his end so alone? While Biscuit, gentle and dependent, was now out there with no one. I doubted James would even try to keep the dog safe.
That night, a vivid dream haunted meold Mr Wilkins calling out for Biscuit through the city, his tears falling. Even awake, I couldnt let it go. I hadnt allowed myself to cry since I was a child, but that day the sorrows came close.
The same dream returned, even when Emily brought me home. One morning, she said softly, Henry, youre very quiet.
Im fine, just remembering someone I met in hospital. I was there when he died, I murmured, He just wanted his son to care for his dog. No family, reallyonly the son, and theyd fallen out. When James finally came, it was for the house, not his dad. Im worried about Biscuit; Ive never even seen her.
Why dont we look for her? Emily asked immediately. If shes still at his house, she shouldnt be alone. We could bring her here.
You mean it? You wouldnt mind a dog?
Not at all, Id love it! And wed be helping.
The thought of a good coffee and a chocolate bar got us the address from the receptionist at St. Marys, who was only too pleased to help once Emily worked her charm.
We arrived in a quiet Hertfordshire village, Georges old cottage already looking deserted. No sign of a dog. A neighbour, seeing us poke at the gate, popped out.
You looking for someone? she called. I explained, and she nodded, Poor George. Lovely man, salt of the earth. His son didnt do right by him, you know. Didnt even do a proper funeral. Just wanted the house fixed to sell it.
Did you see Georges dog around, Biscuit?
Oh, little Biscuit? Shes not left the gate since he went away. Poor thing kept vigil for him, howling every night. James turned up, shouted at her, took her off somewhere. Not seen either since. Hed never loved animals, that chap.
She showed us a photo on her phoneBiscuit was a corgi, sandy fur and huge trusting eyes.
We left quietly, guilt eating at us. We tried local streets, asking, searching parks, but no one had seen her. Calls to James went unansweredblocked, Im sure.
Lets just hope shes okay, Emily whispered as we drove away, fate once again intervening as heavy traffic forced us onto a side road.
A mile down, Emily pointed: Isnt that? There, on the verge, sat a lone corgi, tattered collar, tired but hopeful.
Biscuit, I called, voice trembling. The corgi looked up, wary, but then I knelt, hand outstretched, told her, You dont know me, but your owner cared for you so much. If youd like, you can come home with us?
She hesitated, then sniffed my handswhich, somehow, still carried the faint scent of old Mr Wilkins. She wagged her tail, stepping closer, bowing her head for a stroke. I blinked away tears. Emily just wept openlythe relief, the joy.
Soon the three of us were driving home, Biscuit curled up between us, finally safe.
Looking at her that evening, I grumbled, Thats James for yousorted the dog, indeed. Emily, sometimes I want words with people like him.
Let it go, Henry, she said, gentler than ever. Weve got Biscuit, and shes got us. Life catches up eventually. One day hell be old and lonely and maybe then hell understand.
I agreed. Biscuit slept soundly, legs twitching as if running through dreams, a small smile on her face.
I knew where she was going, whom she was visiting.
Say hi to Mr Wilkins for us, I thought, nearly aloud, as I slipped off to find the ring box.
That night I finally asked Emily to marry me. It wasnt as grand as Id imaginedno flickering restaurant candlelightbut it was right. The moment was now, not some future that might never come.
She said yes, with tears and laughter. Biscuit woke just long enough to nuzzle us, then fell back asleep.
And thats how we became a family.
