One day, when I was a wee girl, I was out with my mum,
brother and sister. We bumped into an old school friend of Mum’s, who looked at
us three siblings (brother, curly black hair, blue eyes. Sister, wavy blonde
hair, blue eyes. Me, straight red hair, green eyes) and said, in broad Norfolk tones
‘Wull, oi cun see that you hint strayed!’ Meaning the three of us shared pretty
much the same face. Dad’s face.
Big eyes, straight nose and stupidly broad cheekbones that
the rest of our body hangs off. That’s us. That’s Dad.
I got more than the physical inheritance though. I was the
lucky one who also got Dad’s propensity to angsty bollockery, love of history,
and easily moved to tearsiness. Along with an appreciation of crap jokes,
crosswords, and terrible puns. Not to mention being a complete arse who will
argue a point for faaaaar too long. When Dad comes to stay, sleep goes out of
the window. You’ll find us instead, at three in the morning, way too many wine bottles down, nose to nose,
debating* some pointless issue that has no importance or relevance to either of
us over an overflowing ashtray.
*Shouting and telling each other to fuck off
Overflowing ashtray? Yep. We both smoke. In fact, the first
cigarette I ever smoked, aged 13, was in front of my parents. A roll up, ham-fistedly
fashioned from Samson tobacco and Job rolling papers, in a hotel restaurant in
Formentera. Watching Dad, I piped up ‘How do you actually roll a cigarette,
Dad?’ ‘Like this. You have a go!’ So I did, to the horror of other guests
(Woman at next table: He is TEACHING her how to ROLL. A. CIGARETTE). And Dad
then suggested I try smoking it. So I did, again, to the horror of other
guests.
Kind of stupid of us both, really. Because we’re both
asthmatics. And smoking and asthma… yeesh. Not the best of combinations. Dad’s
much worse than I am, always has been, even before the fags and red wine came
into his life. He’s always had a weak chest, a hacking cough, not coped well
with extremes of heat. Part of the reason why my parents moved out to Spain
when they retired, to get away from the damp, the cold. But still, the fags and
the asthma remained.
A few years ago, Dad developed a chest infection. And being
that type of man, refused to go to the doctor to get it sorted. Until Mum
called a doctor to the house because dad hadn’t eaten, slept or smoked for
three days because he was finding it too hard to breathe. Quelle surprise, his
oxygen levels had dropped so low he was immediately hospitalised. Scary shit
for my sister and I, back here in the UK. But he got better, slowly. And of
course, was back on the red wine and fags as soon as he felt better. Stupid
bugger.
So how’s Dad doing now? Not great. He ought to be. He’s on
holiday in Thailand with some golf friends. He hasn’t played a round for a
while though. Because (and I will try to type this without crying) he’s in
intensive care instead. The stupid bastard. Another chest infection, which he
ignored. Until he hadn’t slept for days. Because he was struggling for each
breath. He did seek medical advice, and
was told to go to hospital immediately. What do you think he did? Yes, he went
back to his hotel room. Until he couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
And because the stupid bastard had left it so long, he didn’t
just have a chest infection. He developed pneumonia too. So now he’s in an
intensive care unit in a hospital in Thailand, breathing through a ventilator,
hooked up to an IV drip, unable to talk, waiting to have an incision made in
his chest to get his lungs drained of all the shitty gunk that he allowed to
build up in there.
I could wring his fucking neck, the stupid, stupid bastard. I could, but I can’t.
Because he’s on his own, in another country, and I can’t talk to him. My sister
and I are relying on texts and terse emails from hotel receptionists and
friends who don’t seem to grasp just how scared we are. From the moment we
first heard, the news has been mostly positive. He’s stable. The hospital staff
are pleased with how he’s responding. He’s mostly been unconscious, but when he’s
awake, he can communicate by notes. But no direct contact with us, obviously.
I don’t want to say it;
I don’t want to admit it. I’m doing everything I can to distract myself from
it, by twatting about on twitter, listening to podcasts, pissing about on
facebook, anything to pretend that this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, Dad
isn’t seriously ill in another country that’s seven hours in the future. I’m
laughing hysterically at things that aren’t funny, allowing myself to be wound
up by stuff I don’t care about, and taking offence where none is meant. Being
mawkish and self-indulgent, and writing twee vomit inducing bollocks. Anything.
Anything than allow myself to dwell on reality.
But the thought that is my constant companion, from the
moment I don’t wake from the sleep I can’t find, is the same. Please don’t die.
Please don’t die. Please keep breathing.
4 comments:
My heart goes out to you. You precious, lovely young woman. Massive CW hug xxx
Huge hugs and thinking of you, hope all turns out ok. Can only begin to imagine how this must feel. Much love xxx
Just to provide an update, I had a message from Dad this morning to say he's off the respirator, and breathing on his own now. Hoping to move onto a normal ward tomorrow, and maybe out of hospital in a week or so.
There are a lot of people who deserve a damned good thanking. And I will be hunting each and every one of you down, very soon...
Sorry to come to this late but thank goodness for that update! Hope you got some sleep last night. X
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