Not an hour had passed since his surgery as I slowly walked into his room. The lights were off, the curtains slightly drawn, his body outlined only by the machines flashing lights connected to him. Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted; he was so still he almost looked peaceful. I drowned out the sound of yelling, the beeping of machines and I watched him lay there. It was just he and I.
I had heard late night whispers of funeral plans. They spoke of things he wanted and didn’t want. Memories of regret and moments he was worried he would never have.
His eyes fluttered open slightly and he gave me a half-hearted grin, ‘it hurts,’ he said. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, so I stood there and grabbed his hand. For a man so sick he squeezed my hand so tightly and it gave me hope. Hope that everything was going be ok. Hope that in a few days time we would be back bickering again, getting on each other’s nerves and then me sheepishly crawling back to him asking for help.
‘It hurts and I am just so tired. I need to rest. Thank you for coming but please just go,’ he said. I turned to walk away but his grip didn’t loosen on my hand. He had asked me to go but he held onto my hand so tightly. For once the man who was always so strong so resilient was now holding on to me for support. It crippled me with fear.
The next morning he awoke to me standing at the base of his bed. My mother clutched his hand, the last 48hrs of stress apparent across her beautiful face. He looked at us and whispered, ‘the first thing I thought of when I came to was, oh thank you, I made it.’
The road ahead may have only just begun but dearest father know I love you. I am here. And we will fight this.
Ps apologies for being really quiet, unfortunately my dad is not well. I promise to upload new content soon but in the meantime send positive energy and love out into the universe for anyone who is ill or suffering at the moment.