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.
XOXO
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.
