He's so ill. He's so
ill that he can't talk, can't walk, doesn't eat.
He can barely breathe.
I watch him. I watch him, when he thinks no one's looking. I see
how he pauses, as he turns the kettle on. How twisting a tap causes
him to gasp, and then lean against the counter. It takes him over
half an hour to shower.
And he grimaces, and
makes a joke out of how useless he is.
And I remember my dad.
The dad I grew up with. Who played squash twice a week, tennis for
two hours on Sunday afternoons. The dad who took me swimming every
Sunday morning, who encouraged me to swim 104 laps, to say I'd swum a
mile when I was ten years old.
He told me to argue, to
question, to be a pain in the arse.
And now he can't even
breathe enough to tell me to stop being a twatty blogger.
And I can't stop crying.
1 comment:
I'm so sorry your Dad is so poorly, I hope he (and you) are coping ok. He's lucky to have a Twatty Blogger like you looking after him x
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