| The High Horse with Daire Ó Criodain |
| Written by Daire Ó Criodain | |
|
WHEN my father went into hospital in June last year, he expected to return home the same evening. Although his days were clearly numbered, cancer well advanced and already wheelchair bound, he went into hospital only for a day’s respite care. But he collapsed and was kept in. Though his condition stabilized and he transitioned to a nursing home for a few months before dying in November, he never saw his home again. All the accoutrements of his life remain in the house. Like the grandfather clock in the song, that stopped short never to go again when the old man died, the calendar in my father’s house is still stubbornly stuck on 21 June. His spectacles, address book, medicines and tablets still lie around the house. Long-life food is still in the fridge, books and radio beside his bed, television remote by his armchair. Connections to the world remain frozen though the thread of the associated life is cut. Registration is required to view this content, registration is FREE |
