Its 2.30am and I'm sitting up in Dad's bed back at his little bungalow. I've just spoken to Sue about what's been going down here. I got to the ward at about 9.00am yesterday and saw Dad in bed with an oxygen mask fighting for breath. He can't sleep but he drifts between consciousness and semi-consciousness. I spoke to the Consultant who said when he was admitted his lungs were full of pneumonia. They're giving him intravenous antibiotics and now a saline drip as he is currently "nil by mouth" due to concerns that he will inhale food and liquid and choke. He's lucid but very difficult to understand and also drifts between tacit acceptance of his lot and hope for a recovery. To me, looking on, it's like he's having to work like a marathon runner just to stay alive.
We've said our "I love you's" and he is touchingly grateful for my being there. At one point I thought his last words were going to be "you know how to use the washing machine?" He could wrong-foot us all and stage a sudden recovery, but my gut is telling me no.
I thought about staying the night at the Ward, but in the end I decided to go back to Dad's place for some respite and to recharge my batteries, literally.
Now I have to decide when to go back. Sue has counselled me to try to get some more sleep, but between jet lag, stress and grief I'm not sure where I stand. I feel like I'm holding back a dam of grief right now in order to present a calm and loving face to Dad.
Dad is like a sailor holding onto to a life raft in a cold and choppy sea with only some strange sliver of hope to keep him going.
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