The Last dinner

Gavan was dying.  We knew it, Patricia and I, and James, his brother, all three of us knew it.   He was struggling with life itself.  But Gavan, he wouldn’t accept it.  He remained confident that the experimental drugs would work, that he would recover, that he would return to college, see his friends, that this year we would be able to go back to the Edinburgh Festival, that he was going to be OK.

He wanted to take his mother out for a meal.  A posh dinner, extravagant, no expense spared, for he loved Patricia and had not, because of his illness, been able to celebrate her birthday.   We were all to come, to Gavan’s posh dinner.  It was to be planned in the greatest of  secrecy.   I was to be his accomplice.

We made the arrangements in his flat, where we cared for him, helped him to and from his wheelchair, supervised the complex mix of drugs, watched over him,  as he died.  Gavan and I, exploring the websites of the most expensive Dublin restaurants, looking for posh, for extravagance, with wheelchair access.   We settled on a restaurant that I know.  Well, I’d been there once before.  It was in the Westbury Hotel, just off Grafton Street; The “Wilde” restaurant.  

 His instructions were quite meticulous and detailed.   I was to make contact with the Westbury and I spoke to their manager, Rachel, or maybe she was the Maitre de’, checking with her if it was wheelchair accessible. I sent her an email.    I found the email the other day. It was what prompted me to put this down on paper.

“My son Gavan, aged 25, is very gravely ill with cancer and wishes to arrange a dinner for his family.   In some secrecy.   He has asked me to organise a posh and expensive restaurant to impress us all.

If it would be possible he would like the menus for the dinner to be without prices as he thinks we might order cheap.   He wants to ensure the waiting staff, and anyone else defers only to him and that he is the head of the table for the night.  And he wants to pay with €500 notes to show how well off he is and impress us all again.

There would be four of us.   Gavan needs wheelchair access.  One of us is vegetarian and Gavan, because of his illness will eat only plain food rather than gourmet.   

We would like to come on Tuesday 9th January if that is possible

Can you arrange for a priceless menu?

John”

Gavan was insistent upon the menu being without prices. He suspected Patricia would order the cheapest dishes, and the modest of wines because he was only a student and had little enough money.  He also suspected she would try to pay, so everyone was to defer only to Gavan.  He was to be in complete control.

 The €500 notes, I told him was a bit over the top.   But itis what he wanted.  Not that Gavan was ever the least bit flash.  Quite the opposite.  He was reserved, lacked self-confidence, always had.   He had suffered an earlier cancer when he was five years old and the radiotherapy treatment had left him with a slight asymmetry in his face.  He was very self-conscious of it.  Hated people looking at him, grew his hair long to minimize the asymmetry.   He was a lovely young ma, but flash?  Flash he never was.    But €500 notes, that’s what he wanted, to impress his mum and his brother James.    And he had the money, had the savings, wouldn’t consider taking it from me.   So I got him the notes.   Six grands worth.  Not that the dinner would be that expensive, but it was a flashy enough bundle for him to pull out of his wallet in front of his brother.    He wanted to give a €500 note to the head waiter to make sure we were looked after.  I told him that was a bit daft.  He accepted it that it probably was, but I reckon that he was going to do it anyway.   It was his show.

 The Westbury was wonderful, did everything they could to facilitate us, sent the menus, even printed a set for us without any prices on.   I think that even they were looking forward to it all.

 The day came. That morning he had an appointment up at Liffey Valley, to be fitted with a hearing aid for he was slowly turning deaf under the treatment he was receiving.

  Such appointments, at Liffey Valley, at hospitals, at clinics, and such like were a constant feature of his life now.   And they needed to be planned with some care.   We had to get him down in the wheelchair to the car.    He would pull himself up onto the front seat and we could then lift his legs into the passenger well, make him comfortable.   And then the wheelchair had to be collapsed and loaded into the car.  Bloody bloody wheelchair, I hated it.     We had to ensure enough drugs were with us, and water.   They were mostly opiate painkillers, some fast-acting giving almost immediate relief, others longer-lasting, and there were other drugs, to counter the side effects.  I would have pockets full of the bloody things.   

  And at Liffey Valley or wherever,  the same routine, unload the wheelchair, lift and manoeuvre him from the car into the wheelchair, checking for pain levels. 

He was in good form, excited about the dinner that evening.  He had told Patricia and James about it by now, and they too shared his excitement and anticipation, although he did not tell them about the special menus and the €500 notes, that was to be his surprise, his delight.. 

We knew, Patricia, James, and I, that it would probably be the last ever dinner we would have together in any restaurant.   But Gavan would not have accepted that, not Gavan.  He was not going to die.  He was sure of it.

 These appointments, at hospital and so on, were tiring for him.  His energy levels were always low now, sapped by the pain and the suffering.    He became quite exhausted at Liffey Valley and was in sustained pain.   The drugs helped but knocked him out even further.   It was a struggle to get him back into the car and he was in discomfort all the way on the journey; home.

 We got him back into the flat and into bed.  He was in a dreadful state.   I told him we couldn’t do the dinner and he cried. Told me to postpone it and we would do it next week.

I couldn’t [ speak to the Westbury, I was too upset.  I sent them an email postponing.   And I sat on my own in the flat, Gavan in the bedroom.  And I cried.

 We never made the dinner. Two weeks later Gavan was dead.   

http://bit.ly/3ot5eV7 “With his long hair and gentle ways”

http://bit.ly/3hXqyQg “Taxi Driver”