staring

I find myself sitting and staring at the keyboard, at a loss as to what I should type. Three days in Chamonix, looking over the Mer du Glace glacier, travelling to 3842m to gaze another 1000m up at Mont Blanc, more cheese than a man should ever eat...it was good. And it provided a distraction from what is happening here with dad.

His slide continues. He is getting more and more weak and today, for the first time, he could not face the stairs. At night, and during today, he pissed in a bucket in the bedroom as the walk to the toilet is a challenge. I emptied the bucket twice, tipping a too-thick, too-red substance I'd scream at if it was mine down the toilet.

I was here when he woke this morning and his eyes woke up a minute or so after they opened. Dazed and confused, finding no comfort either in bed or in a chair, he still has not given up. This afternoon I asked if he wanted a help to get from his prone position to sitting upright and he almost barked "no" at me.

The district nurse came to visit him this morning and will be back tomorrow to get the ball rolling on a move to either a hospice or a nursing home. The house - his house - has a toilet upstairs and a kitchen downstairs and is simply not viable. That said, as he now eats hardly anything as the pain is so bad, his need for a kitchen is questionable. Today he had a small bowl of porridge and two spoons of rice pudding, washed down with some Lucozade sport and orange cordial. And that was all.

It pains me to see him like this. This morning, as we chatted I got choked up and teary and he was consoling me. It was odd; I think he's skipped a couple of his morphine tablets today because he seems weaker but more sharp witted; the severadol knocks the shit out of him and he hardly knows whether it is day or night. I came downstairs and in three attempts, split by bouts of bloke-sobs - the ones that smack you all of a sudden as they sneak around your defences - explained our concerns to the nurse. She then went up to see dad and left, telling us she'd make calls and be back. When dad was consoling me I swear his voice was calm, reassuring and steady, as if there really was nothing wrong. Was it? Was that what I wanted it to sound like? I'd swear on a stack of bibles (said the atheist) that his voice was, well, his voice. Not the one the cancer has forced upon him.

When I get here in the morning I listen at his door to see if I can hear him breathing and I don't know whether I want to or not. But he is still up for the fight. He curses himself as he tries to move his frail body. When having a charming chat about the colour of his piss he told me how blood in his urine may be a trigger for radiotherapy. Are you up for it? I asked; what choice do I have? He replied. I should be fucking well ashamed of myself. What would I do? What will I do when it's my turn? Will I fight or will I quit?

I'll fight. Just like my dad.

I hate leaving because I don't know what I'll come back to, but arriving is OK as I feel prepared for whatever I discover. Anyway, I'm off now. Bro and I need to have THE chat.

Oh yeah, I ran 13miles today, some across Wimbledon Common. Was very nice.