Anniversaries and New Stories.

A new weekly instalment series is coming.

This week will likely be the last time I write about personal musings for a while. It’s becoming harder to keep pulling stories from my psyche and I believe we all need to take time out for ourselves. Writing so personally and deeply can be healing, triggering, and exhausting all at the same time. Part of me wants to wrap myself up in a ball and hide away, while the other part needs to keep writing – because writing is a part of who I am.

So, next month I am starting a new series, called Chiaroscuro, which will be weekly instalments of what will eventually make up a new manuscript. This fictional narrative is based on the Sydney art scene (where most of my career was spent). I’ve decided to put a paywall on this one – subscribers will only have to pay the minimum amount of $5 per month to read the weekly instalments. I believe the work will be worth it! I’d love you to subscribe to support my work.

Last week marked a year since my dad’s emergency heart surgery. It had me reflecting on life. Anniversaries always hit hard like that. As I looked over photos of an olive-skinned man dressed in a pale blue gown, eyes closed with tubes coming out from different places, I couldn’t help but think how much life could change instantly. And how much a single event can shape your life, health, and emotions—even a year on.

Tears rolled out of my eyes as I flicked through the photos on my phone. Who was this man with my daughter’s white bunny that I’d stuffed under his chin? Who was I at this moment in time? Because who I am now certainly doesn’t reflect the person I was then. I looked scared, unwell, sad. These are facts; I was struggling with my health at the time – having just been re-diagnosed with Graves’ disease after being in remission for eighteen months.

The ICU doctors had rung me early that morning to say Dad had no readable blood pressure, so he was going in for emergency heart surgery that day. So, I’d jumped in the car and driven two hours on a mission to get to Sydney to see him before he went in for emergency surgery. Once I’d arrived at the hospital, I missed seeing him by a few minutes. I remember thinking to myself, I hope I haven’t just missed the last time I see my dad by five minutes.

It wasn’t physically the last time I saw him, but he did die that day (many times I am told while he was being operated on), and I know it sounds strange, but in a way, I didn’t ever see him again. Because when he came out of surgery, he was a different person, and he still is. I lost a part of my dad that day and it still pains me to recall who he was before and who is now. I know people will read this and think, she should be grateful. I am. Very much so. But it was a long road, and there were many more hurdles to come.

It turns out Dad’s heart had blown three out of four valves while he was being operated on, and his heart stopped multiple times. He can’t remember much from that time – he was asleep for most of it – but he has a vivid dreamlike memory of going somewhere (to another world) and meeting with other people who had passed, and being told quite aggressively that he couldn’t be there and had to return. I’d never heard anyone explain a firsthand Near Death Experience to me before. Another first.

Nothing can prepare you for seeing a loved one lifeless with a machine breathing for them. Covered in blankets, tubes, and cords and surrounded by all sorts of machines buzzing and whirring. Being told Dad might not survive was a complete shock. Questions flew through my mind like a hurricane at speed.

How did his health deteriorate so quickly?

Could I have done something to help?

Why didn’t I bring him to the hospital sooner?

Why did the last hospital discharge him if he was so sick?

While Dad spent six days in the ICU under anaesthetic, his organs began shutting down. His hands swelled, his skin went soft and pallid and then turned yellow. He was put on dialysis. He was lucky that the one dialysis machine the hospital had wasn’t being used and he could have it for three days while it cleaned his blood. He started to make small improvements – he began trying to open his eyes when he’d hear any of the loved one’s voices that surrounded him.

I lost more weight and my hair started falling out. I was away from my daughter for days and I missed my husband like crazy. They were the two people I needed most but I was apart from, sitting next to my dad’s hospital bed for hours on end through the day and night. I was so exhausted; I was sleeping in some random little room on the floor in the hospital. It’s wild how much adrenaline can push you forward in situations like these. But in these moments, I was lucky to have my aunt with me and the silver lining was that we were there to support each other and a beautiful relationship blossomed from the experience. One in which we still support each other.

Once Dad was in recovery, he started to show signs of severe delirium. We waited for days, hoping he’d come out of it. He’d tell stories of catching trains, being in Bali and meeting with random people I’d never heard of. I wondered if I’d ever get to talk to my dad again or if this was the best I’d get. I just wanted my old Dad back.

After a month in hospital, Dad was released and put into a rehabilitation hospital. For three months he re-learned how to eat, exercise, and do menial activities we all take for granted as healthy members of society. It was still a struggle for him to recall the details of what had happened to him and still is. He has no memory of the “accident” (he still thinks he was hit by a car).

It wasn’t until December last year – some seven months after his surgery that he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. It was a relief of sorts. I’d known something was wrong for a long time. Dad has never been the same since before his surgery. There are times when I reflect on little things, like cards he’s written me for my birthday vs not remembering my birthday and the changes are obvious and painful.

Deep down I knew that day on my way to the hospital, I might lose my Dad, and in many ways I did. But I am also grateful that he survived and he’s here to see his grandchildren grow up. He might not remember much, but at least they will remember him.

Joey Hespe 2024.

Image: Francis Bacon, Three Studies for Self-Portrait, 1979–80.