Friday Cryday

I was writing my new post on Hijacked Amygdala today when I received some bad news. My darling father, who also happens to be my best friend, went for a routine scan this morning and ended up getting taken to another hospital by ambulance, where he is now in theatre having an emergency operation.

Of course, the phone signal here is abysmal so when I spoke to him I could barely understand a word. But he was saying goodbye. He said, “I love you, I love you.”

Apparently it’s “highly unlikely” he’ll survive the op, and if he does he’ll be in hospital for at least 2 weeks and then require 24 hour care forevermore. Naturally I legged it to the hospital to find out what the fucking hell is going on and tell them not to go ahead with the surgery, but it’s too late, he’s in theatre and there is a sign at the end of his bed saying DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.

Of course, nobody will tell me what’s happening. I want my brother but he’s in Madrid. And I don’t want to worry him if it’s not that bad, but we’ll need to get him on a flight to London asap if my dad won’t see tomorrow. But no, not a helpful member of staff in sight. Also wondering if I should get my mother involved, but I know when my dad wakes up he’ll be massively annoyed at her presence hahaha.

So I’ve been sitting by these cunting lifts for hours, waiting, waiting. Every time the lift opens I think I stop breathing. Is it him in the bed? No, Dad doesn’t own stripy socks. Is that him? No, too pale, Dad worships the sun god Ra. But everyone who comes through is old, frail, white haired. I am relieved each time I can say, Hey, you’re not my dad!!! But then again, he may never come back to the ward, he may be in the morgue.

"Cunting Lifts"

Dad, you cannot fucking leave me. I refuse. You just can’t, not today. We were supposed to meet at the pub today for fish and chips!!! Everyone is wondering where we are! You can’t leave anyway because you haven’t finished the book you’re reading. And I need someone to share my anger over the price of coffee in this place. And there’s a tissue on the floor by the lift… 112 people have walked past without picking it up, including 61 members of medical staff and 28 cleaning staff. I made a tally chart. But I’m going to pick it up now and put it in the bin because I’m going for a smoke. It’s what you would want me to do.

I love you Fatherington.

God bless the NHS. Not sure if I mean that, but saying so just in case.

My post on Hijacked Amygdala will be rescheduled and published in due course. In the meantime, read all the other mad stuff on there.



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