A Time Machine
by Sabah Choudrey
01/01/2020 | life writing | 13 minute read
February. I called the paramedics today and they took dad to hospital. It’s not far, twenty minutes in car. Ten minutes in blue lights. He has an infection in both of his lungs. They showed me the x-ray and it took me a while to realise how bad it was; his bones were completely covered by a cloudy white fog. It took me a while to realise those were his bones under there. It took me a while.
I stayed with him for hours until he moved to a ward. It’s not special, it’s not exceptional, it’s not good or brave or really nice of me to do that. This is just what happens. I know how this goes. He’ll tell me a few times to leave, go home, but the doctors, nurses, staff, they’ll ask me to stay.
They come in and out of the doors marked resuscitation, I sit still waiting and watching. Dad is next to me in a bed on fluids, intravenous antibiotics, oxygen, tubes, cables, lines everywhere. He is weak. His body is working hard. His body is fighting. He says something to me and I realise that no matter what, your desi dad will always be your desi dad; I can call the paramedics, take dad to hospital, sit by his side for hours, and I will still be a disappointment to my family.
“You should have become a doctor.”
(I’m laughing about it now.)
“It’s not special, it’s not exceptional, it’s not good or brave or really nice of me to do that. This is just what happens. I know how this goes. He’ll tell me a few times to leave, go home, but the doctors, nurses, staff, they’ll ask me to stay.”
The next day. “You treat me like shit.”
(Maybe I’ll laugh about it later.)
Dad told me about the man in the bay opposite him. He said last night for two hours they’ve been trying to help him and that he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. I can overhear the nurses, he’s chewing it, oh no, sir, please take a sip and drink some water. He’s chewing his medication instead of swallowing it. He’s been doing this a few times. Dad says, “I hope I don’t end up like him.”
About twenty minutes later, dad tells me about the man in the bay opposite, and for two hours the nurses were with him last night. Dad says, “I hope I don’t end up like him.”
The next day. “Dad, do you know why you had to come to hospital?”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because of my …my problems.”
“Do you know which problems?”
“…No. No, I don’t remember.”
The next day. I take drugs and I take more drugs. Dad’s in hospital so I can do what I want. I can do what I want, I say in childlike tones through a stiff jaw and quivering lip. I don’t have to look after anyone (not even myself), I don’t have to think about anyone (especially not myself).
I am disconnected. I am detached. From him. From me. I tell myself it’s okay because I don’t get this messy very much. So I get twice as messy and I tell myself again it’s okay. This is where I want to be. This is where I want to stay. I know, deep down, I can’t stay here. I always have to go back. Re-connect. Re-attach. To him. To me. So I get away faster. This time is precious, this time dad is in hospital and this time is finally all mine. It’s urgent. I’m desperate to get away fast. I’m urgent to run away fast. It feels like I am running head first into a brick wall. But I can’t find a brick wall. I am just running. I find more drugs. I am running faster. I don’t find a brick wall. I break apart anyway.
The next day. I have my first panic attack. It’s an experience. People say that when it’s happening they feel like they’re dying and it’s terrifying. It felt like I was dying and it felt great. I wasn’t scared. I was happy. Relieved. Overjoyed. I could finally physically feel myself breaking, smashing, ripping. It wasn’t just in my head, trapped in my heart. I didn’t want it to stop. I didn’t want to calm down. I didn’t want to breathe.
Because when this panic attack stops, life still goes on. Everything is still the same. Nothing has changed. Except I have had my first panic attack.
“I can do what I want, I say in childlike tones through a stiff jaw and quivering lip. I don’t have to look after anyone (not even myself), I don’t have to think about anyone (especially not myself).”
The next day. I went into the garden and lay under the burning sun for an hour, almost naked. The sun touched scars on my chest that only lovers see (and maybe my neighbours if they were home). Beads of sweat joined one another like a necklace. Pooling. Choking.
I think about water a lot.
The way sweat trickles down my hairy tummy.
The way grief trickles down my heavy body into every part of my life, every part of my interactions, reactions, relations.
These feelings trickle through, finding every crack, like water finds a space to fill. Simply because that is how water moves. That is how water lives.
Is that how grief moves? (I don’t know.) Is that how grief lives? (Please tell me.) This journey is different to everyone and unique to me.
March. Dad’s dementia is worse. It always is after an infection (confusion) and after a hospital stay (disorientation). His short term memory is worse. His cognitive function is worse. His vocabulary and speech is worse. I always think I’ll get used to it, the slow decline, but I don’t get used to it. I think it will be okay because I know what to expect with this but it is not okay. I think I will feel at ease because I know what happens next. But this is far from easy.
We are having the same conversations almost one after the other, I am repeating myself a lot. That part isn’t frustrating. It doesn’t bother me. I think I know him quite well, I can see it on his face, in his eyes, when something isn’t registering, when it’s not making sense, when he just can’t hear it and blurts out something he thinks matches what I’ve said. I am prepared to repeat myself, to explain myself, to slow down. To deal with this, I find myself sharing less and less. I’m lying to him.
I worry about lying to him, I try not to do it. (I already do.) I know that as his dementia gets worse, he’s going to get paranoid, suspicious, judgemental. (He already is). And I’m going to be the first target. (I already am.) He doesn’t need any (more) reasons to mistrust me (more). (They’re already there.) I try not to lie to him but then I realise how much information he just doesn’t need. About my day, where I’m going, who I’m going to see, whether I’m freelancing, working or volunteering, if I’m going to university, library or therapy. To him, when I am out of the house, I am out of the house. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, the only thing that matters to him is the time I come home. So I tell him the things that matter to him. ‘I’m going to work, back at seven/eight/nine…’ And when it hits ten, I know he’s asleep, in bed, and it doesn’t matter what time I come back.
Until about midnight. Then two. Then five. Then seven.
He wakes up at these times in the night. Yes, it is like clockwork. Yes, I know this about him. Yes, I time my journey back so when I get in, he isn’t awake. I want to pretend I was home earlier than I got home. And… I just don’t want to see him. I can’t explain it. I just really don’t want to have to greet him or bump into him, and say loudly hi dad, you okay? and he will say yes no matter what because he can’t hear me, he doesn’t have his hearing aids in and he’s usually a bit disorientated at this time of night (is it the lighting, is it because he doesn’t use his oxygen, is it because he’s just woken up) and I’ll say, clearly, good night, see you in the morning.
Yes, it is like clockwork.
In the morning dad will ask did you sleep enough? And I’ll say confidently yes I only got home at- whatever time I actually got home minus two hours.
And I’ll try and start a conversation but he will say yes no matter what because he can’t hear me, he doesn’t have his hearing aids in yet, but when he gets them and I repeat myself, and I repeat myself again because the TV is on and when he mutes it and I repeat myself, and I repeat myself again and… I try and start a conversation because he can’t.
A part of me knows he must want to talk and ask me about my day, ask me how I am but he can’t, he doesn’t know how to anymore, he really doesn’t know what to say. I can see him trying, and I can hear him through the silence. Sometimes I will just talk but I will end up repeating and repeating myself. Sometimes I will just give up. I’m tired. I want to tell him I’m tired. Why don’t I tell him I am tired? I guess it’s the same reason I lie to him. I just want to make things easier for him.
I want to share my life with him. Share my good days at work, exciting dinners, cooking with friends, progress with my degree and placement. But there was a definite day when I just stopped doing that. It made things easier for him, and for us; our interactions became easier. Because when I’d share, he just couldn’t make sense of it or find the right words to reply. It’s not that painful or personal for me, I know the man has dementia. Except that it is painful and personal. Accepting it all. The memories I still hold that he has let go of. The conversations we will never have again. And the conversations we will have again and again and again. I am accepting it all.
April. We are watching a programme about a team of astronomers around the world trying to take a photo of a black hole in space. It’s complicated. Astrophysics. I love it. Dad and I watched a similar programme a few weeks ago and we really enjoyed it. But this one. It’s very complicated. Einstein’s theory of relativity. I still love it.
The scientists are explaining that the event horizon, by the black hole, basically works like a time machine. As you approach the event horizon, the edge of the black hole, and you return back to earth, ten thousand, a million, even a billion years may have passed. It’s basically a time machine.
“As you approach the event horizon, the edge of the black hole, and you return back to earth, ten thousand, a million, even a billion years may have passed. It’s basically a time machine.”
I don’t know how it works. But this so-called time machine draws me in. I loved history at school, learning about the world, and wondering if I could go back to any year, any era for a day, what time would I choose to go back to?
I explain to dad this black hole time machine, and I ask if he is following. He doesn’t understand.
I explain to dad this black hole time machine again, and I ask if he is following. I don’t know if he understands.
I ask him, if you had a time machine and you could go back to any time in the world, history, whenever, which year would you go back to?
I haven’t even finished the end of my sentence and he says nineteen thirty-seven. I don’t think he understands because this is the year he was born. I repeat his answer, nineteen thirty-seven really, why? He does understand and I realise I’m taken aback by his uncomplicated answer. Not medieval times, the Mughal era, or even dinosaurs. He wants to go back to the year he was born. To see what it was like, he says. I don’t know what to say, but I’m smiling. It’s not very complicated at all.
May. It is the first day of Ramadan. Dad comes into the kitchen.
“What’s gunnah in English?”
“Sin,” I say, as he comes to the table. I put a plate of saag and naan on the table. He says, “I am earning sin because you are fasting yet you are preparing my lunch.” I say, “It’s okay, who else is going to do it?” I hear my words that tumble from a hurt place and I stop licking my wounds. “I’m sure Allah will understand your different circumstances.”
“I’m sure he will.”
June. Dad is in hospital again. He had a fall this morning and didn’t tell anyone. The carer came and went. My sister came and went. It was the afternoon and he waited to tell me. Another afternoon I feel the weight on me. I knew that not if but when we call 111, that not if but when the paramedics come over, it will be a question of not if but when will they admit him to hospital. He is unwell. The antibiotics we get from the GP don’t work anymore, he’s immune to many of them. I knew these antibiotics weren’t working. I can hear it in the rattle of his chest, the shortness of his breath, I can see that his body is fatigued and he needs to rest.
Again, I forget I also need rest.
“He wants to go back to the year he was born. To see what it was like, he says. I don’t know what to say, but I’m smiling. It’s not very complicated at all.”
July. Our dementia caseworker is not very useful. I found a flyer by chance, advertising a monthly group at the cognitive impairment and dementia service at our local hospital for ‘people caring for family members with dementia.’ I actually can’t believe I’m reading this. This exists. This group exists. This leaflet moves something in me, it has given me permission to acknowledge that yes this is different, yes this is hard and yes my needs for something more than therapy or talking to friends is legitimate.
I go to the group and sit quietly, listening to everyone talk about their fathers, mothers and in-laws with dementia. I say to myself I’ll only talk once everyone else has said something. Whilst I am ignoring the ball of anxiety building in my stomach or is it my chest or is it my neck everyone else has said something and the facilitator asks me a question because I haven’t said anything and I want to cry and scream and throw this ball against the walls, watch it bounce and bounce back and break windows and hurt people and and and I breathe in.
I won’t talk about this to anyone for a while.
about Sabah Choudrey (they/them/theirs)
reluctant activist on most things trans, brown and hairy. co-founder of Trans Pride Brighton in 2013, and proud trans youth worker since 2014. public speaker, shy writer and psychotherapist in training. top three passions right now: carving out spaces for queer and trans people of colour, making friends with cats, and
taking selfies from bad angles.
facebook: Sabah Choudrey
twitter: @SabahChoudrey
instagram: @sabah.c