cosmicgirlie

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard those words, or variations of, in the last 20 years.

Lately, it’s progressed to “Ohhhh well at least you’re getting to spend quality time with your dad, right?”

Every single time I hear these words, I feel like I have no choice but to nod, dumbly, and pretend that everything’s ok. I have to pretend that, yeah, sure! He’s so precious to me right now.

He’s not precious to me.

He never has been.

Sadly, now, he never will be.

Do I feel guilty?

No. Because I came to terms with this about 18 years ago.

It drives me nuts because there seems to be this thing where suddenly,completely out of the blue, I’m supposed to forge this amazing loving, father-daughter relationship out of nowhere. With a complete stranger. And I do mean, complete stranger. Considering he’s my father, he knows pretty much nothing about me. There’s so much of my childhood (read: all of it) in which he had no connection with me, or with anything I did. We were strangers to each other. There was nothing.

Like, NOTHING.

NO. THING. AT. ALL.

He’s a stranger to me. We have beliefs from other ends of the solar system. In a bajillion ways, he is the polar opposite to me. And after many years of being forced (forced…) to see things his way, he never saw the life I lived.

Which is weird for that to happen, when two people live in the same house.

It’s also a shame, because you know, he’s still my dad, right?

I’m not angry about how we turned out. I have no hard feelings, and I don’t hate him or whatever for the way he treated me as a kid. However I do hate what I’m being put through now.

Being made to feel like I failed at “keeping the family together”, being made to feel guilty (intentionally or otherwise) for staying in touch with him (forgive me for asking, but…conversation is a two-way thing, right?). I hate all of that, and I hate all the assumptions that go along with the current situation.

But the toughest part? It has got to be the assumption that I want to “spend quality time and share final precious memories” with him.

Nope. I don’t want to do that at all, actually. In fact, what I want right now is for this horrible nightmare to be over. I want to stop being made to scratch at wounds and scars which healed and faded a million years ago. I want to stop feeling like I failed somehow, even though I’ve done nothing but bust my backside non-stop for the last however many weeks/months.

I don’t hate him. I’m wary of him, for so many current reasons. But I don’t hate him. Because I don’t know who the fuck he is. He doesn’t know who the fuck I am. Currently I feel sad because in the times I have been to visit him, particularly during the last 6-ish weeks, he still hasn’t made any effort to know me. And what’s even more sad is it’s partly because he doesn’t know how. I always thought, as a kid, I was the “weird” one of the family. My friends were different, I stressed slightly unusually (black goths weren’t exactly popular back in the 80s/90s…) and I did things which…weren’t exactly typical of a teenage black girl (cello playing, bell ringing, bmx biking, cider drinking goth, with blue and purple hair? Yeah…huh…)

Looking back, it was always going to be one of those “relationships” which was a complete non-starter. It took me a while to get over that, or at least get used to that, but I got there. Eventually. To be fair, he made it easier in many, many unfortunate ways.

On one of our many looong and busy round trips from home to hospital to flat, my older brother asked me why I’m doing what I’m doing. Why am I giving up so much of my time? Why am I making such an effort? He lives in Sheffield, and is immensely frustrated that he can’t be here to help more. The answer, to me was very clear from my point of view. They’re not all great answers, but they’re what I think and feel.

I might not see him as my dad (and I actually prefer to call him Mr L—–y), but he’s still another human being, whom I’m related to whether I like it or not. If I cared for him like someone who had been my dad, then sure, maybe I’d do the hand holding, and head stroking, and hugs when he cries and stuff.

But I don’t. Because I can’t.

Sometimes I wonder if what I’m feeling and how I’m dealing is the same way nurses do it. Show the necessary outward emotions because they’re dealing with human beings, but don’t get too close because it’s still just another patient.

I also do as much as I do because no one else can, right now. All the paperwork has been signed over to me, because I’m the closest sibling mature enough to deal with it all.

Last week, after picking up his paperwork, I was AMAZED at how I actually managed to figure it all out. And writing appropriate legal-ish letters, to be signed by Mr L, was pretty straightforward. I hereby elect J Mountford to be executor of my estate.

It was weird writing those letters; I thought I should feel more emotion, but I pretty much felt nothing. How could I possibly feel more? Everything has become so matter-of-fact for me, now. I know that makes my brother uncomfortable, though he’s being amazing in understanding where I’m coming from. My younger sister, however, probably despises my very core.

I hope one day she might actually be ready to listen to what she needs to hear.

I think, sometimes, perhaps I was the one who was meant to deal with the formal side of all of this. The rest of my family members struggle, understandably for many emotional reasons. It seems only fair that, since I can sort of deal with what’s happening with a reasonable level head, that I should do the paperwork.

It was still pretty tough getting Mr L into the nursing home, and then filling in 8 sheets of paperwork, asking about his daily routines. That was…frustratingly odd. It was a firm reminder that I was filling this stuff in for a stranger. but at least I was getting shit done.

My head hurts.

I’m having regular dizzy spells now, and I’m stupidly (blindly? Hah!) ignoring them. I have to keep going, because everything keeps going.

But some days…some days I want to go around with a sign that says “yeah, but he’s not my dad, you know?”

I wish all of this bullshit was easier somehow.

Standing in his flat right now, to collect all of his paperwork and his suit which he wants when he goes.

The flat now smells old…dusty…stale smoke. It’s eerily quiet even though the electrics are humming.

I forgot to ale a list of all the things I need to do, so now I’m just walking from room to room…”learning”. Finding out more about him, I guess.

There’s a clock ticking, and it’s really fucking loud. Too loud. For such a tiny clock.

In his wardrobe are a bunch of suits. I can see his suit jacket which he wore on his wedding day, maybe 40 years ago.

They divorced when I was 18 I think. Or 19. I don’t know. That time is a blur. I was ill.

The smell bothers me.

It’s not a bad smell. I just don’t like it. I suspect I’ll remember this smell.

I’ve taken some of the suits out, trying to figure out which one he wanted. I can’t ask him now, because he’ll accuse me of trying to kill him, and that I’ve taken the nurses side. And then he’ll start crying again, and I don’t want to cause that.

Not any more than I already have. Maybe I’ll just take a couple of the suits. Maybe the ones which seem to be most appropriate.
I put back the black one. And the beige one. It’s hideous. Actually I’ve just taken a closer look; I’m not even sure beige is the right word.

It’s 1972, is what it is.

There’s the grey pin-stripe suit. I think it’s that one. I’m certain. It has a waistcoat and everything. It’s really smart. He wore it to my granddad’s funeral last year. I wonder if he knew he might be buried in it some 18 months later.

He has 3 months left. Apparently. At best. I saw him yesterday, and the oncology team, and the consultants. He’s not eating much now, he’s too scared to, because he says it’s just easier to die, and then the nurses can’t kill him.

Night terrors are a bastard. Nightmares are a whole different thing. Night terrors…he has no idea if he’s awake or asleep. So now, whilst cancer eats at his body, his own mind eats away at his soul.

The morphine hallucinations don’t help either.

I wish the clock wasn’t so loud, how the hell did he sleep here?

I’ve put the other suits back. Shit. I need to find a shirt. Rummaging through the shirts I catch myself thinking “no…not that one…he’ll never be comfy in that one…will this one decompose easily? No, this one has no cufflinks…”

I don’t understand my thoughts these days, so I have to just let whatever wants to flow, flow. It’s easier that way.

I hate some of the thoughts. Some are vile. Some betray me. But I can’t stop the thoughts.

I’m giving up on the shirts for now.

Looking through the cupboards in the kitchen, and laughing to myself as I see plates, cups, bowls, pots, pans and more, all from my childhood. A mountain of plastic food tubs are balanced in a corner.

I meant to bring my camera.

I’m glad I didn’t bring my camera.

Condensed milk and evaporated milk fill a corner of one of the cupboards. He and my brother LIVE on that stuff. I couldn’t stomach it as a kid. Never tried it since. The smell of Tetley’s tea bags fills my nose.

On top of the microwave are tubs and bags filled with seeds. No doubt ready to plant for the winter, ready for next year. I can hear him lecturing me again on how to grow stuff. He never knew I already grew all kinds of stuff for many years.

Fridge has cans of ginger beer and nourishment, tubs of green peppers and scotch bonnet peppers, and a couple of bottles of fizzy pop. There’s a mug of what looks like oil, at the bottom.

The fridge is so loud. And so is that clock.

Walked into a tiny room above the stairs and I’ve just stopped in my tracks as I peek round the corner.

There’s a small stack of books. I recognise them all immediately.

Theres a green one, which I can just see, and on its spine I can see the words Dean & Son Ltd. I know this book without taking another step.

“Hello Mr Twiddle”

I read this book over a thousand times as a kid.

I’ve picked it up.

It’s the very same one, the one I thought I had lost when my parents split up. Haven’t seen it since then.

Chest hurts.

Head hurts.

I feel really sick. Have done for days now.

There’s a Cannon & Ball annual (1983) and badly repaired Dandy book (1984). They belong to my brother. I’ll take them for him.

He may not remember them. I do.

I put the other books back.

My mind wanders fleetingly to the shirts on the bed.

I spy a massive silver wooden box. It’s full of vinyl records. This is the treasure. I know that there are records in there dating back to (I think) the late 60s.

I’m looking at the size of it right now, and know that I can’t move this on my own. It’s a two person job. I know there are more records here, in wooden boxes. I know where they all are; he told me. Before he started going crazy.

I need to pick up speed now; I’m conscious that I need to do the school run. It will take me 35mins to get home, and another 20 mins to get to school early enough.

I should call one of the moms.

I can’t call anyone.

I’m weirdly silenced right now. Perhaps I’m just tired. I’ve had to talk a lot the last few days.

Paperwork.

Shirt.

Records.

Should have written that list.

I can hear people, family members, reminding me of the things I need to do. Bank…building society…life insurance…policies…will.

dancing through my head.

So many records.

So much paperwork.

I’m glad I have my backpack with me.

Paperwork into carrier bags. That’ll do. Picked up speed now.

There’s a guitar on top of the wardrobe. Acoustic. He used to be in a band before I was born. I don’t know if he ever played this guitar. It’s badly out of tune.

Suit. Shirts.

Rummaging through drawers. I feel sick. The smell is clinging to me and I keep bumping into his Zimmer frame. He used it maybe 5 times. It was all so quick.

I should move it.

I don’t.

I find his life policy stuff and pull it out. A photo, printed onto paper and placed into a plastic wallet, comes out with it. It’s a photo of The Mr and I, with Big Small, aged maybe 3 months. I remember the photo shot very well.

And now I’m laughing at myself as I remember my constant nagging of people to print their bloody photos already.

No one cares about photos.

I care about photos. There are photos of us, the “kids”, dotted around the flat. Hahah actual laughter now; on top of the wardrobe is the battered suitcase I took when I went to Jamaica back in 1987…’86? I was caught in hurricane Gilbert. My parents and siblings were at home; I was staying with my Granddad. I flew home by myself. I think is was maybe 7 or 8.

Given up on the shirt. I’ve shoved them all away. I’ll buy him one if I get enough money in time.

Big old briefcase.

I already know what’s in it.

I’ve opened it, pulled out a framed drawing, put it back and then closed it.

I put it by the stairs.

So many records.

Back to the bedroom to pick up the suit. Put it by the stairs. I notice my hands are dry and feel strange, the way they feel after I’ve handled a lot of old dusty things.

It’s only been a month. He’s not dead yet.

I look at the plant and wonder if I should water it.

I see more and water them all.

Spied more records. Another box.

Head hurts. Migraine.

11:30 now. I’ve been here an hour. Feels like days.

Forgot to water the kitchen plants.

Holy shit! I’ve just found a clock from the house where I grew up! It’s gold and reminds me of the sun. Though now, 30 years later, it’s more like a star.

I’ve taken a photo of it.

Don’t know why.

need to go. Head hurts. Feel sick. Head HURTS.

I loved that clock.

Another cupboard. More records.

I change my mind about dealing with the records now. Just paperwork today.

Last look in the lounge.

Photos of The Smalls, and my nephew and niece.

His biggest regret is that he won’t see them grow up. He told me a few weeks ago, before bursting into tears.

Put the guitar back on top of the wardrobe, put the chair back.

Turn off the lights.

Turn off the power.

3 months.

Time to go now.

On top of that, he’s pretty much unable to move his right leg, and regularly has the shakes in his right arm. Either the lump on his brain and/or the lesions on his spine are deteriorating his mobility on his right hand side. Watching him eat his jacket potato yesterday, he dropped his spoon way too many times.

The nurses told me on the phone last night that I needed to speak to him, urgently. I phoned him, and he was crying.
“J….I woke up…and I was dead…I couldn’t move anything and it was all dark…and I was dead and I couldn’t open my eyes…and then the nurses….all the nurses were standing there laughing at me…I called them but no one would help me…”

I couldn’t go to him. I couldn’t drive, because I had had a drink.

I did whatever I could to console him over the phone – I don’t remember much of what I said, though The Mr tells me I said exactly the right things – and then called the nurses back to see what action could be taken, or at least find out why he’s hallucinating.

(Mental note – I’ve just consumed an entire packet of Cheese and ‘Oh-So’ Onion Ringos, large bag, with one hand, in the time it’s taken me to type the above. And I speed type.)

Of course, at this stage it’s the morphine which is causing him to hallucinate. 50mg a day, as well as boosters before he needs to move for anything. At the moment, he can sit up for approx 2 minutes, before extreme pain in his legs and back means that he has to lie down again. Whilst on 10mg, he could sit up for approx 30-45 seconds. Which was pushing it. He needs to sit up to eat…and it’s taking him so long to eat, he gets pissed off because he has to go up and down in his bed so much.

I’d be pissed too. No one needs that kinda bullshit when you just want to eat your food.

I have no idea what I’m typing right now, and nothing is in order, because my brain keeps throwing this information at me and I can’t always keep track and/or make sense.

He can’t do it either. He got cross on Thursday because the ward doctors keep asking him questions and telling him information (to varying degrees) which is an overload for him, and causing serious confusion. (Including, they’re going to operate on him, they’re going to give him radiotherapy, they’re going to get him walking and many more things, despite not having the results from the oncology team as yet. Yeah…that’s not going to help a 77 year old who is now struggling to keep track of what fucking day it is. Every day is the same when you’re in hospital.)

He’s become increasingly paranoid, and his forgetfulness kicked it up a proper notch.

I took him some curried goat on Thursday, which he inhaled at lightning speed with some rice. He ate the rest of it that evening with a jacket potato.

Friday I went in with some chicken soup, and he was telling me about the curried goat…which L (my sister’s partner) took in. Apparently, L brought it in and sat with him whilst he ate it…with some rice. And then he ate the rest with a jacket potato.

I had a horrible fleeting moment of guilt last night when I realised that, not only could I NOT go in to the hospital because I had been drinking, but that I also DIDN’T want to go in because I couldn’t face what I would find. I still have no connection with him, and it’s getting harder and harder as time goes by and he still recognises me, to pretend that there IS a connection.

(There is no connection. He knows NOTHING about me. He doesn’t even know that I spent a week in the mental health care home, right across the road from where I walk into the hospital to visit him. I got put in there 15 years ago when I repeatedly tried to take my own life.)

I’ve lived with an alcoholic. It was pretty fucking terrifying, not because he harmed me (he never did), but because I was helpless to do anything. I watched him repeatedly spiral off the rails, and as an 19 year old at the time, I wasn’t exactly equipped with a wealth of knowledge on how to deal with the situation.

So when I woke up this morning, knowing I needed to make the various family phone calls, I did my Morning Self Assessment to see what my strength levels were like. By 10:40 this morning, I found myself walking to the kitchen ready to grab a glass.

“I need a drink” I thought to myself.

“Not juice. I want alcohol.”

And immediately scared the crap out of myself, because it was so automatic and it felt so right.

I reached for a ginormous bag of crisps and a carton of fruit juice, and I’ve decided I’m not an alcoholic. Of course I’m not! That’s just stupid.

But it’s not stupid. And it IS frightening.

My mind is doing all kinds of fuckery with me, at the mo, and as my big brother said on the phone this morning, “This is just the beginning…”

This IS just the beginning. And I need to conserve my energy and keep my head on straight, because this roller coaster is the shittiest roller coaster I’ve ever been on, and is already 3 weeks too long. I’d rather go back to Drayton Manor.

This is just the beginning. And I’m hoping I’m not classed as the worst fucking asshole in the world for hoping that this fucking crap ride, one way or another, doesn’t go on for longer than I can manage.

Although if I’m honest, I’ve been pretty fucking angry for years.

I’m pissed about the cancer, I’m pissed about how certain family members are behaving, I’m pissed about what I have to do, I’m pissed about what I don’t get to do, I’m pissed about the decisions I’m making, I’m pissed about flailing stupidly with my work, I’m pissed that I’m an asshole with The Smalls and The Mr, and I’m pissed that I’m constantly pissed.

Normally, anger comes to me, and I deal with it pretty quick. I shrug it off.

But right now, it comes in waves, and I actually want to punch seven kinds of shit out of everything in my site.

And it’s not just because of the cancer.

I think, actually, the main reason has been exacerbated by this cancer episode, and it’s all completely out of my hands. I can’t even step away, because I’m constantly dragged back.

Basically, I’m beginning to wonder if I was adopted into a family which lived in a different realm to me.

I don’t hate them, but I do constantly find myself asking what the hell I did to deserve this.

(I didn’t do anything, I think. But I guess everything I go through, and what they put me/themselves through, is all part of this cycle called life. And I guess it’s all contributory, or something).

Needless to say, I can’t and won’t go into detail; that would be really unfair. But lord knows, I have felt lonely as fuck since the day I was able to remember a single thought. And stupidly, like some kind of dick, I’ve spent the majority of my life thinking that one day it would all change. At this very moment in time, I feel so much resentment for everything and everyone, and I’m having a tough time shaking it.

And it’s tough to shake it, because every single time I’m with them, I’m reminded of the things I should be doing, which I am doing, and yet I still don’t seem to be doing enough of it. I’m constantly pulled left and right, and seem to have no energy left to look after me and my own. And of course, when I do take a breather to look after those closest to me, I end up feeling guilty for telling everyone else to step the fuck back out of my face.

I’m exhausted from being so angry.

My dad has (had?) one of the worst tempers I have ever seen in my entire life. He has (had?) this amazing ability to fly off the handle and quite literally tear someone a new one. Have you ever watched LEGO Ninjago: Masters of Spinjitsu? You know when they turn into those spinning tornado things? It’s like that. But with swearing and violence.

I realised all too soon that I carried that same temper, too. A family member used to love pointing it out to me, like some hilarious flaw to constantly feel bad about. “Hahahah you’re just like your dad.” That’s hard to hear, given that everyone was afraid of him, and few family members like him.

I fucking hated that temper, but it made me headstrong. It gave me strength when I needed to stand up for myself, or for other people. I couldn’t ditch the temper, and I couldn’t suppress it, so I guess I learned how to use.

But now it’s like some shitty motherfucking emotion which is spinning out of control.

I almost lost my rag this week at another family member who is being nothing short of evil with dad. I had to walk away, before I said or didn’t something I couldn’t comprehend, or would totally regret. I think the fact that we were in the hospital at the time, right outside dad’s bay, prevented the red mist from descending.

In my house, there’s a door from the kitchen out into the hallway. There’s a dent in the door, maybe just below head height.

I did it.

In the pits of my worst depressive episode since living in this house (maybe 13 years now), I pretty much lost my shit, and hit the door with my fist. That was several years ago. It’s a horrible but very real reminder.

I am so very fucking angry right now. All the issues I have with people in my life, all I want to do is go scream about those issues, with those people, directly in their faces. Every so often, I can vividly picture what that might look like; my heart rate speeds up a little, shoulders are up by my ears, and my jaw aches from non-stop clenching. The eternal migraine, as a result of these responses, is really fucking boring me now.

The thing is, everything that is happening right now has pulled me into a world which I want absolutely NOTHING to do with. I don’t feel that I want any of it. Not. One. Bit. I selfishly want to live in ignorance, and pretend that my little world is completely fine.

Which is hilarious, because I’ve never lived like that, nor could I deal with that.

I could pretend that everything is fine; I can nod and shake my head at the right time, and I can pretend to let stuff wash over me, I can pretend like I care when actually I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

Actually that’s bollocks – I can’t do any of those.

I probably care too much.

And I swear to lucifer, the next person who tells me I’m overthinking it all, or I should just stop thinking about it too much, or anything which is basically asking me to just suddenly be somebody else, is probably not going to get a nice response. It’ll be short, but it won’t be nice.

Annoyingly, I can’t even seem to do the things which help me chill out. I have hula hoops which I need to tape, my cello needs to be dusted off ready to potentially start teaching, and in fact we all (in this house) went to the park recently (I have no idea when. Last week? Week before? Last year?) and I learned two new moves. I’ve been trying to learn them for about 5 months, on and off.

I should have been ecstatic.

I felt less than meh.

And then I come home, and amble around trying to be busy, and all I can think about is that I have exactly zero money, exactly zero income, two children who wonder when their mother is going to calm the fuck down, a family that I cannot make work no matter how much it is requested of me, and a headache which I’m pretty certain is going to make me add a second dent to the door.

This. Shit. Needs. To. Stop.

PS There’s no Silent Sunday this week, a) because I’ve not taken a single damn photo of anything, b) because I need this blog to be MY little safe space without being invaded, and c) because right now, I just cannot be fucking arsed.

An infinite number of years ago, I lost my best friend John to Cancer. It was the fucking worst. It was also one of my first wake-up calls to dealing with cancer. Since that time, I’ve watched too many other people die from cancer. I’ve also seen people go into remission, and I have one remarkable friend who has been cancer free for some time now (Fenngirl is nothing short of fucking amazing – her strength and beauty blows me away. Every single day). I’ve learned so much more about it, what it does, how it works, through no choice of my own.

But I’m glad I did.

Because last Friday, Friday 21st August, when I received a phone call telling me my dad had cancer, I realised that actually, I didn’t know nearly as much as I thought I did. Actually, I feel like I know fuck all.

What I do know is this.

He is probably one of the fittest and most active men I know. At 77, he would go to work at his allotment every single day, and be there from morning until night. He grows produce like I’ve never tasted from any farmers market, or super market. The onions he grows? Sweet Jesus should you ever cut into one, you’ll need to wear goggles unless you want your eyeballs to turn into liquid. His potatoes make fucking ridonkulous chips and mash. Tomatoes grow to not much smaller than Little Small’s head (and his head is bloody huge). His pumpkins right now, in the middle of August, are already bigger than those you would find in the supermarket at harvest time. In about a month, they’ll be the same size as three footballs together.

So when it turned out, an infinite number of weeks ago, that he could no longer stand up and that he was having serious back pain, I thought well fuck. He’s done his back in. It’s ok though, the physio is coming out to his first floor flat, and he’ll be fine in no time.

I don’t speak to my dad much.

He and my mom separated in the worst possible circumstances, and I’ve never had a great relationship with either of them. My childhood with both of them was pretty fucking horrendous. I have no regrets now, nor do I have any malice. But I don’t have any particular feelings, either.

It’s hard to feel the warm fuzzies, when there’s no warm fuzzies to latch on to.

I called him from time to time, mostly to see that he was ok, and to update him re. The Smalls.

My sister thinks I’m an asshole for being this way, but there’s nothing I can do until she’s willing to listen to, understand, and accept the full story of my childhood. My childhood was a stark contrast to hers; there are 6-7 years between us, and whilst I hated that as a kid, I’m thankful for it now. It meant that she didn’t have to go through what my brother and I went through.

So, there are no warm fuzzies.

But the panic that punched me in the face on Friday, well it’s only fair to say I still have a heart. I’m not an asshole. I still give a shit.

And when I visited him, and saw how much he had deteriorated in the week from when I saw him previously, I was pretty fucking nervous.

Lying in hospital was this tiny little man, who didn’t look…right. It was still ok, though, because he was in such good spirits.

“Me can fight dis, yuh know?” in his strong Jamaican accent, patois. “Me didn’t want any medication, any drugs, but me tink seh me can fight dis, you know? Me can tek de drugs an mek it easy. Me know say it serious, but dem seh dem can operate or sumting, an fix it suh. It will be alright, yuh nuh have to worry bout ME!” and then he would laugh.

Buss out a laugh.

I believed him.

He hates hospitals like I fucking hate UKIP and people who post fucking dumbass bacon product shit on my Facebook wall.
(That struggle is real, just saying. So please cut that shit right out. And I mean the bacon stuff AND the UKIP stuff, because there’s just no fucking need.)

For AGES, when he was housebound, unable to walk and in so much pain he was in tears pretty much all the time, he was ADAMANT he was not having any injections or anything.

So…to see him not only be admitted to hospital, but be ok about it, and then be ok with taking treatment was…pretty fucking eye opening. But I also knew that he knew what was up. He knew it was cancer (I think) before the rest of us did.

But last Friday, he was up for nailing cancer square in the face.

I went to see him again on Monday, hoping to get detailed results.

Cancer in his spine. Which explained the two sudden lumps on his lower back.

And here is where my technical language fails me, because I’m having a hard time retaining information right now.

Cancer almost never starts ON or IN the spine. It’s almost ALWAYS a metastasis from somewhere else in the body.

So, not only did he have cancer, but it was already serious enough to have come from somewhere else.

As if that wasn’t enough, he has a lump on the top of his head which had gotten bigger over the last few weeks.

Blood tests rules out prostate and blood cancer. But we still had lungs and bowels to check.

Not gonna lie, I decided to hope for bowel cancer, since that would mean they could just remove the bowl, operate on his back, and be done. He’d hopefully go into remission.

They sent him for his CT scan on Tuesday morning.

Have you ever had a phone call from someone, particularly a medical professional, which is so fucking calm, it’s almost too calm, thus portraying a weird sense of urgency?

“Hello…yes? This is [insert name I can’t remember] from the hospital? It’s about [insert something which is now a blur], and you need to get here before 12:00, please?”

I looked at my watch – it was 10:50, I had a consultation scheduled for 11:00, and the hospital was 40 minutes away.
“I know it’s pretty late already, but if you could come before midday, we need you here. And you should also bring any other family members who can make it also.”

I don’t remember much.

I sent a text message to all immediate family telling them the conversation I had just had. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there on my own.

I had just bought some goat meat to make into a curry for dad, and had found some of those Fish n Chips biscuits/crisps…remember the ones from when you were a kid? Well they had pickled onion flavour. I remember feeling stoked. I also remembered dad loves the Innocent Coconut Water, and I wanted him to have some. I remember being at home and pouring some into a bottle. I remember grabbing the last of my rum flavoured coffee for him – he normally flavours his with real rum. He and Leigh, my sister’s partner, laughed because I live in an area posh enough to sell rum coffee from the local farm.

It’s an ongoing joke now.

It always makes me laugh.

They make me laugh.

I’m posh, but not that posh because I don’t have a conservatory. I joked that I might have to move out of the area because of that.

We laughed.

I think I ran in and out of the house several times, grabbing stuff to take. I don’t entirely remember what I grabbed.

I do remember making it to the hospital in just over 25 minutes. I listened to dubstep the whole way there.

The consultant came up to the bed, and practically begged us to go somewhere private, to a family room. I could tell that, whatever she was going to tell us, was the last thing she ever wanted to do.

She did something which terrified me; as Leigh pulled the last curtain around dad’s bed on the ward, she looked at me, and her face haunted me. She looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights. She mouthed something at me…I think, I think she said “this is bad” or “this is bad news” and she shook her head.

I just smiled back, and nodded at her to go on. I mouthed “it’s ok. It’s ok.”

I felt stupid.

Dad lay there, completely coherent, alert, bright, aware. He’s not stupid. He’s 77 and there’s not a single trace of dementia or insanity about him. He’s more fucking alert than me, sometimes.

“How are you feeling, Mr Lindsay? Are you ok for me to continue?”

“Umm hmm, of course, babs.”

Everyone is “babs”. My dad, even with his strong but understandable patois, is also integrated Brummie and Black Country. We grew up on the border of those two “counties”.

My dad has cancer in his spine. It has come from his lungs. He has cancerous tumours in his lung, which have spread to his brain, his spine, and his pelvis. It’s primary and secondary, it’s severe, and it’s spreading fast. He will be on bed rest for the foreseeable.

If he moves too much, he runs the risk of crushing and possibly snapping his spinal cord; the lesions on his lower back are crushing his spine into the spinal cord.

Specialists have been notified; oncologists, lung cancer specialists, respiratory specialists, pain management team. His notes have been transferred to the local major hospital, The Queen Elizabeth. Specialists from there will be assessing him and his notes over the next few days.

And then she said something which pretty much hit it home:

“Our primary focus right now is to just keep him comfortable.”

In short:

“There’s not much we can do because it’s so advanced. So pain management is first and foremost until we can work out what treatment may be possible.”

I went and read the “official notes” on the consultant’s computer.

5cm in right lung…2.5cm in right lung…nothing in left lung…2cm left frontal lobe…spine…pelvis…I needed to read it, and seconds after I read it, it was already a blur.

Dad gave up.

Well, he didn’t give up, but he knew it was serious enough to just enjoy and make the most of his remaining time. He understood the severity of it.

He just wanted to make the most of his family now.

And then he said he wished he could see his grandkids grow up.

And then he burst into tears.

Maybe an hour later I came home and broke the news to my parents in law, and to my brother who lives far away. That was the worst.

I’ve seen my family members cry before, but not for a long time.

I felt sick.

I still feel sick. I have a migraine right now, and I know it won’t go.

I’ve wanted to write this out, just in the hope of understanding all of the information currently whizzing through my head. I have work to do, and The Smalls to look after, and a house to tidy, food to prepare, and right now I can barely keep my eyes open.

I feel weird, and my brain and body pretty much don’t know what’s going on.

People keep telling me “If there’s anything I can do…” to which I always answer “I don’t know. But thanks.”

I don’t know anything, really. I know I’m tired, and I know dad is fighting mentally, but not physically. I fear one day soon he may stop fighting physically.

I fully understand that we all have to “go” eventually. The death of Granddad last year pretty much made everything very real and matter-of-fact for me. Am I cold to death? No. I just accept that it inevitably will happen and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it after a certain point. I just disagree with the terms and conditions of it all.

I disagree with cancer. There’s no fucking need for it.

Apart from trying to get some sleep, and not losing my marbles, I don’t really know what to do now. I feel like I have a million things to do, and instead, I’ve decided I’m going to concentrate on being as much of a human being as possible. Functioning as normally as possible.

I’m fucking tired.

Fuck cancer.