I went to see my father with my mother to Ward 6W at the Royal Free Hospital. Instantaneously, he looked pleased to see, recognized me as ‘Shibley’, and then appeared to be very agitated and restless. He moved on to say, ‘Shibley, Shibley, Problem, Problem’. I went to the toilet, and when I came back, I found that the arrest team were there. He had lost output, and he had had a heart attack. I knew his blood pressure had dropped, and at that point did not understand the severity of the event. I had only minutes’ earlier been clutching his Lucozade, forced him to take a sip or two, but left the biscuits and chocolates, as well as his ‘Get well soon’ and ‘Thank you’ card in the bag.
I will bury these items with him. I will wear his shoes though, which he had bought the previous week from Oxford Street in Marks and Spencer.

What followed as the worst day of my life. I never saw him again until bed 3 in the ITU. In between, the Consultant Cardiologist, who used to be my SpR at the Hammersmith, caught up with my progress since my recovery and since I went feet-first into my legal studies and promoting awareness of dementia. He explained fully that it was likely that my father would not survive. Actually, his normal echocardiogram was a false positive pre-operatively; we both knew pre-operatively that he was having severe episodes of chest pain at rest but the anomaly was such that his coronary arteries were delivering a normal result because the whole cardiac body was underperfused. The Consultant explained he was lucky to be alive, with all the arteries apart from one being intensely calcific, implying that he was a very high risk patient for a procedure. However, we both knew that if he had had this angiogram beforehand, he might have actually died, not had his operation, and be awaiting perhaps a by-pass graft which might not have worked anyway.

He had his operation because we both saw him decline over several years to almost wheelchair bound. He would wake up at 3 am, say his Islamic prayers, watch BBC News 24 like a zombie all morning, and then cook for me and my mother with whom he lived in Primrose Hill. He would then go to bed at 8 pm, but have nightmares, and not sleep well every night because of intense leg pain, which I now know was intense peripheral vascular disease. Dad, please forgive me – I am not a practising Doctor any more.

I have loads of regrets that he came to see me after alcoholic withdrawal fits in hospital, some requiring emergency intubation, and to see me after my various drunk-and-disorderlies. That’s the thing I’ll never forgive myself for – my selfishness and his selflessness. He knew he was critically ill, but said nothing. He looked after me and my mum, and was wonderful. Everyone who has messaged to me have used consistent words such as ‘a gentleman’, ‘wonderful’ and ‘kind’. That was him – he always wore a suit (and a tie). He did not grumble that he failed the diploma of the Membership of the Royal College of Physicians exam (which I passed in 2005), because of his undiagnosed colour blindness in large part. Also, as for the famous BBC articles which call me a stalker, although I have never received an offence, caution, reprimand or warning from the Police for stalking, he told me to ‘Forget about it. The BBC is a big institution, and its smears does not matter any more to me’.

I will continue to apply to the GMC and the SRA for my entries to the legal and medical professions. I dearly uphold each of the professions. I will regret massively that my father will never see my reputations salvaged, but everyone has told me he will ‘get to know’, I should lead each day to the full, and (my Consultant Psychiatrist particularly said it), I had turned the corner. I cried when I told my Psychiatrist yesterday outside Regents Park Mosque that my blood results were normal. He told me, “Well of course, this is no surprise. He knew you’d be cured, believe me”.

This song is for my Dad, Dr Muhammed Khalilur Rahman, who last week said he was ‘sailing home, again across trouble waters’ and always cried when he reminded himself of his elder brother who died in Bangladesh 2 months ago. “I am dying, forever crying”. “Can you hear me through the darkness of the waves?”

My Dad graphically describes the boat as he left his home village of Bangladesh as the trouble waters, and often used to recount when he was bleeped in England to inform him his own father had died. He worked really hard for the NHS for 30 years, and it will come as a shock to his patients in Burgess Hill that he’s passed away.

And, finally, this is him breaking his fast in Ramadan this year. At the back of my mind, I knew he wouldn’t be with me for long, so I took this video against his will. I said to him last Friday when his operation had been cancelled for the second time, “I’m glad, as you can stay with me for a few more days more”. He smiled. Somehow I knew what he knew what exactly I meant…

An extremely difficult time for me, and I wish to thank the enormous amount of messages I’ve had on Twitter and Facebook. I feel like a dead man walking, but I am determined not to relapse for the rest of my life, for the sake of my father’s reputation and my mother, for long I don’t know will be alive.

My father’s funeral will take place in Islington next Wednesday afternoon. I am looking forward to it. He was an amazing man to me. My best friend (and carer as I am disabled). I will always miss his company, and he’s far more wise and intelligent than I’ll ever be.

Allah bless.