A loving and thought-provoking tribute to Jonathan Aitken by the daughter who only found out he was her father when she was 18.
If my father, the Reverend Jonathan Aitken, could give an Easter morning sermon it would be a powerful message of hope and of brighter days ahead, assuring us that we will be united with loved ones again. Today, as he lies critically ill in hospital, I know how many people are hoping for his full recovery so he can return to doing what he loves – being of service.
A couple of weeks ago, on a quiet Saturday morning in New York, I received a frantic phone call from my brother that our father was about to undergo emergency stomach surgery in London and that, if I called his mobile, I might be able to speak to him, possibly for the last time.
Always the father, Jonathan has been an immense supporter of my work as a writer (Pictured, Petra Khashoggi and her father Jonathan Aitken in 2005)
A couple of weeks ago, on a quiet Saturday morning in New York, I received a frantic phone call from my brother that our father was about to undergo emergency stomach surgery in London. (Petra with Adnan Khashoggi, above left, who gave her his name)
But it was too late. My dad, now 78, was already on the operating table. I waited on tenterhooks for the next few hours, confident he would pull through – only to hear further harrowing news. During the operation, he had suffered two heart attacks, a priest had been called to read his last rites, he had been resuscitated twice and although still alive, was now in an induced coma with failing organs.
The doctors had no idea when, or even if, he would wake up. That he has somehow survived it all and is now conscious once again seems nothing short of a miracle.
I have already seen the death of one father. Adnan Khashoggi – the larger-than-life Saudi Arabian businessman who gave me his name and treated me as one of his own – passed away four years ago. Now my real father, the man I first met at the age of 18, is lying in a hospital bed fighting his way back from death – for the second time in a year.
It was March 2020 and the beginning of worldwide lockdown when I’d received another, equally dramatic phone call to say that Jonathan was dying of Covid-19 – and that I should ‘keep praying’.
I couldn’t get back to the UK in time. Frightened and powerless to do anything from more than 3,000 miles away, I couldn’t even go and meet a friend.
Covid was spreading rapidly in New York. That same day, I learned there were four confirmed cases in my apartment building alone. Even setting foot outside my front door put me at risk of contracting the virus.
I had no one to run to, and nowhere to run. Like everyone else, I was trapped inside my head. I sat alone for hours, days and nights, staring at the walls and ceiling, trying to come to terms with what seemed like my dad’s…
Read More: PETRA KHASHOGGI pays a loving tribute to ex-Cabinet minister Jonathan