The big C takes the piss.
So, dad has been pretty rough for nearly a week. He stopped drinking, became incoherent when awake and was vomiting no matter what mixture of anti sickness drugs they tried. By Saturday we were on standby to take him to the Hospice having come to the realisation that this must be 'it'. 'It' being the event that was supposed to happen 4 months ago, 'it' being the event we thought we were actually witnessing 2 months ago and a month before that, 'it' being the event that we desperately want to happen to be kind, but at the same time wishing away. I packed a bag, tried to mentally steady myself and could feel, as has happened before, the early stages of the grieving process starting.
Today, whilst on the way home from a hospital visit for myself, (might as well take a fecking sleeping bag into that place), I drove onto the parents drive only to see Dad waving at me from the lounge window. I couldn't believe it. Last night, according to the palliative care nurse, 'it' was a deadly tsunami not too far off from shore and there he was, less than 24 hours later, stood with only mums arm to steady him. I then sat in disbelief as I watched him drink tea, eat cake and have enough coherency to discuss a documentary I had watched the previous evening.
"That had you going didn't it"
"It had us all going Dad"
"Did you tell people I was on my way out? How many times have you done that now?"
"Three"
"People are going to think you're either taking the piss or being a drama queen"
"Yeah, thanks for that Dad"
"You're quite welcome Jilly, I don't like to be predictable"
"Yeah, I noticed"
And with that he rested his head on the back of the chair and fell asleep, obviously exhausted from the effort of getting out of bed and having a conversation, but he did wake up and he always will wake up because that's what I've come to expect and I'm sure, at the end of a day he turns off his bedside light and chuckles quietly to himself, "I get em every time".
Still waiting to sail.
