While I'm swimming he's drowning.

I feel a lazy sort of guilt right now. I'm sat reading, g&t in hand and looking over the lake. Like I've run away. Which I think I have. My mum and sister, meanwhile are at my dad's side, battling again with the fact that he's in hospital, again. Am I allowed to do this?

I am anyway.

Bad daughter.

This time I found out via WhatsApp. My preferred way of knowing he's ill again.

I tell myself, I wouldn't be there. I'd be in London. Only leave if he looked like it was the end. The real end.

I secretly said to myself today. Hold on until July dad. Let me see you one more time. I didn't take you seriously when you said it would probably be the last time we saw each other.

And what would I want from my child?

Honestly, not for her to fuck off half way round the world. But I know too, I don't want her to be trapped like my mum and sister.

And the inevitable fear and hope that if he wants to, then times up. I wonder how and if he does want it to end. I recall him acknowledging the wishes of his father. He didn't want a slow undignified drowning into mental oblivion with dribble on his chin. Heart attack. I think he got his wish. Too late for a fast exit for my dad. I wonder too if he keeps agreeing to operations so that one, finally completes the cycle. Put to sleep gently. Like so many of our dogs.

I wish I knew.

I can't ask.

When I do, I don't think he tells me the truth. And that might be because he doesn't know himself, or he doesn't like his truth.

I don't think I'll ever know.

Facebook and my mother

Twice in four days I've read a post from my mum that states my dad has been close to a crisis. Both times the way I found out not all was well.
These are cortisone ones.
The first suggested that all was now well.
It wasn't.
He was admitted to hospital after that one.
This next one shows a picture of my mum and dog. Not one of theirs.
It implies everything is under control.
It isn't.
I'm thousands of miles away. Trying hard not to let my mind drift to the news I'll one day hear.
There isn't anything else we can do. Or, your father is dead.

He has a mass.
He's getting a scan.
He's signed a DNR.

That's not on Facebook.

Yet.

Hugs

My husband and I binge watched a harrowing TV series this week. In it hugs were mentioned, used and perceived in various ways. It had to be deliberate. A hug, so innocent and powerful, and creepy.
It's only a few years old but already dated.
Hugs for boys and hugs for girls.
Hugs for comfort.
Hugs for memory.
Hugs for plot.

And as I watched, crying silently and feeling the closeness of grief my husband asked why I watch if it makes me depressed.
"It doesn't make me depressed."
"Wrong word."
"It pulls up the saddnes. I feel sad."
And a moment of truth sounded.
"I'm this close to saddnes all the time."
And unsaid... That's why I have to keep busy, that's why this helps. It's controlled.

And the hugs got to me. And another penny dropped.

My dad can't hug me. I don't remember the last time we did and when he could.
We hug him. Gently and carefully because it can physically hurt him. This fucking disease has stopped my hugs with my dad.

Pardon?

A common dad joke, anything to do with hearing and my dad would always say, Pardon?

He can't hear at the moment.
Pardon?

Yes, you heard me. He can't hear. No hearing. Deaf.

Says he'll learn sign language.

I guess we all will too.

It's not clear why he is deaf. Old age, the gamma knife surgery, wax...

The hardest thing is that one of his all time joys is listening to music. His life is already so limited. Watching a film, listening to music, hearing. This really isn't fair.

Saying goodbye for now to my dad

It's never comfortable for my dad to travel these days, it's hard for him to get about but he does it anyway, when he can and for a good reason.

He came here yesterday with his carer, made it up our steps, with help and we had the lunch I had made.

He told me he loved me, how proud he was of me and how sorry he was he had given me this disease.

He explained how he feels he is deteriorating still, that each time he gets ill, he doesn't fully recover.

He was saying goodbye.

Who needs a spleen?

The next stage in the saga of the family's health.

Dad is having surgery in July; that is of course if that makes sense and as yet we don't know if it does. Those of you who know about the pancreas will also know that once it is gone for there is very little that can be done. The tumour that started in the tail of his pancreas is now very big, last scan it was 5cm. So who have surgery or not... not my choice and it would appear not really my father's either.

They will have to take out his spleen too. I'm fascinated by the fact that in these modern times you don't need a spleen. 1 extra little tablet will be added to his massive load anyway.

I'm in a spiral again. I'm trying not to dwell and not to let myself feel too caught up in it but I wonder most hours if he is going to make it through. The worst thing is I know that part of all of us, dad, my sister, my mum and me are aware that if he does die, as horrible as this sounds that may not be the worst outcome.

I don't want my dad to die but I also know how miserable his life is at times and I don't know how much more he could cope with. His body isn't his own, his life isn't his in so many ways and if he gets to be free again, well. I don't know how else to express it but I don't know how much more any of us can do.

This disease has made us all strong and weak at the same time.

My mum has to go through so much.

Vulnerable

He looked so vulnerable. He was at my gate, stick in had with a list to the right; his hat on his head and mum dashing around in the background sorting the dogs and the car out. He smiled and wobbled on in. Later that day I gave them both a lift to the tube as dad had his first check up since the op. The surgeon is very pleased with him. As we pulled up in a line of traffic I said they would be better off getting out there (nowhere to park) so mum got out. Dad tried, he tried to do the window, get his bag and stick out and open the door. All foiled by the seatbelt left around him still connected to the car. ‘Don’t worry about the window dad just get out’ I felt bad. He almost fell out of the car and a kind man steadied him as he tumbled towards the pavement. Mum looked flustered and cross; a common face these days. He seemed so disabled and I couldn’t stand it.
Since then I’ve seen many people who use sticks and wheelchairs and it seems to me that the problem with my dad is that he refuses to accept he has limitations so he’s not able to deal with them. He still insists on speaking at 90miles an hour and so it’s very hard to understand him and he doesn’t use his stick properly. E.g. as he gained his balance to walk towards the tube I saw him lift it up to point at something!
And then there is the usual fear; will that be me. Will it be her?
But then they came back from then check up and there was all the positive things. The gamma knife will work on another tumour that is looking dodgy and the ones on his spine are doable too. But the best news is they are waiting for a new, faby daby doesy thing that is coming to Britain soon that is better than a gamma knife that will get em. Not the most technical way of describing it but I wasn’t there and so I didn’t get to make my notes. But it sounds good doesn’t it?
I’m on maternity leave now. Two weeks on Wednesday for the c-section.
I will do pictures. Take care everyone