Up, down, up down...
No, not my moods (I'm actually a chipper little lady these days). My Dad. He's not doing too well, the poor old chap. Chemotherapy is kicking his ass. He strolled into this with bravado, nonchalance and a feeling that he'd glide through the treatment with not a problem in sight. And, if I'm honest, I did too. He's always been this big, strong, jovial man, always ready with a joke, a sarcastic comment or a bout of sheer idiocy to put a smile on my face. Always playing the fool. Always there.
And now he's in hospital. Weak, frail and struggling to walk. An infection? A bad reaction to the chemo? They don't know. Endless tests, antibiotics, saline drips. Poking, prodding, injections.
As I drove home from the hospital on Wednesday night, the all too short visiting hours having come to an abrupt end, dark thoughts started to creep in. Thoughts that I don't want to have. Thoughts of what happens if it doesn't work. Thoughts of what life would be like without him.
That is not a life I want to contemplate right now.
So I'm not going to. The dark thoughts can stay right where they belong, buried deep amongst the detritus of my mind. Amongst the long forgotten memories of childhood fears, irrational and naive.
Come on Dad. Sort it out.
