padre

The old man is not in great shape, but I guess he is no worse than I thought he would be. Certainly there was no moment of shock for me when I arrived, but I think Sal was somewhat taken aback. Years ago - about fifteen years ago actually - I returned home from three months overseas to find mum's face half paralysed where cancer and the treatment had gotten into her. Dad has lost a load of weight and is in a lot of pain, but he's still his old self. At the moment. Whereas mum went from (apparently) perfectly well to dead in under a year dad started at riddled with athritis and frequently in pain.

That said, his life has been changed dramtically. Only a few weeks ago we were planning his trip to Australia. But right now he does not leave the house as he is easily exhausted and the pain stabs at him. He would get his newspapers everyday from the newsagent, just up the road. Now even that trip, a trip that was taking an hour to struggle through last week, is too much. I want to believe that he is simply going through a bad patch and his world will again be outside of the house but I do not know if it will. He is on a mad cocktail of drugs for his many and various ailments. King of the drugs is the morphine he takes for the pain. It's the morphine that probably kicks him more than the others put together.

Yesterday was a mildly shocking return. This morning was just horrible. I ran over and arrived at a little after 07:30. All quiet I dropped off my bag and did a couple of laps of the park before coming back, having a cuppa and waiting for dad to get up. When he did awake I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened as he went about getting up and ready for the day. He huffed and puffed and groaned and struggled and I stood or sat listening, helplessly. I was determined not to help as I wanted to discover how capable he still is of independant living in a two story house. The stairs are a concern.

But he made it down stairs, gasping with the effort as he did. We met in the kitchen and I promptly lost it, unable to hold back the tears. Dad, the heartless old bastard, was far stronger than me and the moment passed quickly as I hugged him told him that all would be OK. Then we had a lovely little chat about the house and funeral (wife get sthe house, funeral a non-event, all the old man wants is a list of people told when he's gone.)

It is very strange but the situation is, actually, all normal. It simply is what it is and if we want to get upset we can but there really is no need. It is frustrating to be so helpless, to know that there is nothing that any of us can do. It is a fucker that for dad eating has become painful and the drugs make him nauseous. The last thing he needs is to be starving himself but that is what he is doing. He struggles with even a bit of toast and has to be told to eat. Actually not strictly true; fully equipped with marbles he knows what's what. The rest of us tell him he needs to eat not because he doesn't know but because we want to do something to make things better. Anything.

Another bastard thing is that his hearing, never good, is pretty piss poor now. Difficult to talk in calm, soothing tones when you have to shout.

And so it goes on. I am glad I am here as he seems, apart from being old and frail and utterly fucked, the same dad I've always known. Our ability to cope - all of us - is a wonder to beyhold.

Expect more on the subjuect; some upbeat, some angry, so desparing. Some may heven have a bit of feeling as oppsed to this reportage shite. But more. And on that note, his new PC user-tested, I am going to ride off into the sunset. On the 154 bus to Carshalton.