so I finally got to see my dad on wednesday. He looked much worse than I though he would - and to me, it showed the fast progression - or decay - of him and his mind.
2 and a half weeks ago he was basically fine, he'd been to a business meeting, he'd gone on a five-mile walk.. then one morning he woke up and was talking total bollocks. My stepmum thought it was a bit odd, so she took him to hospital and there, an MRI scan revelaed a huge tumour in the front left of his brain.
What I was expecting yesterday, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I thought he'd be groggy, in bed, a bit woozy from the morphine and steroids they're pumping into him, but capable of a fairly normal conversation. Able to look through the pictures I'd put together, and read the little captions...or at least understand them if I read them to him.
This wasn't the case. He was sat in a wheelchair on the balcony of his hospital room in a hospital gown and his bathrobe. He had a catheter. He also had a 4inch cut with butterfly stitches running down the side of his face - just into his hairline, where they've done a biopsy - the results of which we wont receive until Monday.
When I first went into the room he didn't recognise me, and asked Mari (stepmum) "who's this thats come to visit me?" to which she replied "its Eli, isn't it".. he wore a blank and dreamy expression - the drugs, no doubt - and one eye wasn't focusing properly. I immediately realised I'd have to show him the pictures myself, or he'd have just sat with the book in his lap, not knowing what to do with it.
As I showed him the pictures, explaining when they were taken and who any other people in the pictures were, there was very little glimmer of understanding or recognition.
After I'd finished showing him, he said "who are the children in the pictures..why do they mean so much to you?" The 'children' were all pictures of me when I was little - but he didn't recognise me.
I sat and tried to talk to him, but the words coming out of his mouth made no sense. They weren't even English words put the wrong way - they were completely made-up words - a random jumble of letters which couldn't possibly be deciphered. The few normal words he managed weren't in sentences which made any sense - he kept asking about the football game I'd played..which of course I don't..so I tried telling him about when we used to kick a ball around Hyde Park when I was small, and how he'd always get tired and sit down and watch me run around instead, but he didn't recall anything I was telling him.
I tried not to cry, but of course it couldn't be helped. When he saw me crying, he patted my hand and said "don't worry, it's difficult, it'll be ok". I felt my heart shatter into thousands of pieces, knowing he's oblivious to whats going on. knowing it won't be ok. After half an hour of smiling awkwardly and trying to figure out what he was saying, I gave him a hug, said "I love you Daddy, I'll see you soon" and left, feeling broken beyond repair.
I'll go to see him next week too, but I know by then, he won't recognise me at all. I feel better knowing he's not in any physical pain. The steroids mean he can still stand and speak, but once the results are back from this biopsy, and there's nothing more they can do surgically, he'll go into a hospice. Judging by how ill he is now, it looks like there's only another 2 or 3 weeks left in him.
The end will come quite quickly apparently. I hope he slips away in his sleep, unaware. I was expecting less decay..more conversation. I thought we'd have big chats, honest and sentimental, and I'd have a few more visits of meaning before it got to this. trying to explain it..it was like that scene in Hannibal. Where Dr Lecter serves the FBI agent's brain to the agent himself, and Clarice Starling is sitting at the dining table drugged and full of disbelief. The way the FBI agent acts after his impromptu lobotomy - head lulling, eyes unfocused, and incapable of his own thoughts was basically how my dad was. Except, in the movie, the character was still managing to speak normal words. The same can't be said for dad.
My mood is tearing between numb and physically sick. I'm constantly crying, or on the verge of tears. I used to think my bad dreams scared me. But real life, it seems, is far worse. Horrible, horrible things happen to people every day. I know that. I know I'm not alone in having lost someone I love - and what made him my dad is already gone. But this doesn't make it any easier.
- apologies for such a candid and morose blog -
2 and a half weeks ago he was basically fine, he'd been to a business meeting, he'd gone on a five-mile walk.. then one morning he woke up and was talking total bollocks. My stepmum thought it was a bit odd, so she took him to hospital and there, an MRI scan revelaed a huge tumour in the front left of his brain.
What I was expecting yesterday, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I thought he'd be groggy, in bed, a bit woozy from the morphine and steroids they're pumping into him, but capable of a fairly normal conversation. Able to look through the pictures I'd put together, and read the little captions...or at least understand them if I read them to him.
This wasn't the case. He was sat in a wheelchair on the balcony of his hospital room in a hospital gown and his bathrobe. He had a catheter. He also had a 4inch cut with butterfly stitches running down the side of his face - just into his hairline, where they've done a biopsy - the results of which we wont receive until Monday.
When I first went into the room he didn't recognise me, and asked Mari (stepmum) "who's this thats come to visit me?" to which she replied "its Eli, isn't it".. he wore a blank and dreamy expression - the drugs, no doubt - and one eye wasn't focusing properly. I immediately realised I'd have to show him the pictures myself, or he'd have just sat with the book in his lap, not knowing what to do with it.
As I showed him the pictures, explaining when they were taken and who any other people in the pictures were, there was very little glimmer of understanding or recognition.
After I'd finished showing him, he said "who are the children in the pictures..why do they mean so much to you?" The 'children' were all pictures of me when I was little - but he didn't recognise me.
I sat and tried to talk to him, but the words coming out of his mouth made no sense. They weren't even English words put the wrong way - they were completely made-up words - a random jumble of letters which couldn't possibly be deciphered. The few normal words he managed weren't in sentences which made any sense - he kept asking about the football game I'd played..which of course I don't..so I tried telling him about when we used to kick a ball around Hyde Park when I was small, and how he'd always get tired and sit down and watch me run around instead, but he didn't recall anything I was telling him.
I tried not to cry, but of course it couldn't be helped. When he saw me crying, he patted my hand and said "don't worry, it's difficult, it'll be ok". I felt my heart shatter into thousands of pieces, knowing he's oblivious to whats going on. knowing it won't be ok. After half an hour of smiling awkwardly and trying to figure out what he was saying, I gave him a hug, said "I love you Daddy, I'll see you soon" and left, feeling broken beyond repair.
I'll go to see him next week too, but I know by then, he won't recognise me at all. I feel better knowing he's not in any physical pain. The steroids mean he can still stand and speak, but once the results are back from this biopsy, and there's nothing more they can do surgically, he'll go into a hospice. Judging by how ill he is now, it looks like there's only another 2 or 3 weeks left in him.
The end will come quite quickly apparently. I hope he slips away in his sleep, unaware. I was expecting less decay..more conversation. I thought we'd have big chats, honest and sentimental, and I'd have a few more visits of meaning before it got to this. trying to explain it..it was like that scene in Hannibal. Where Dr Lecter serves the FBI agent's brain to the agent himself, and Clarice Starling is sitting at the dining table drugged and full of disbelief. The way the FBI agent acts after his impromptu lobotomy - head lulling, eyes unfocused, and incapable of his own thoughts was basically how my dad was. Except, in the movie, the character was still managing to speak normal words. The same can't be said for dad.
My mood is tearing between numb and physically sick. I'm constantly crying, or on the verge of tears. I used to think my bad dreams scared me. But real life, it seems, is far worse. Horrible, horrible things happen to people every day. I know that. I know I'm not alone in having lost someone I love - and what made him my dad is already gone. But this doesn't make it any easier.
- apologies for such a candid and morose blog -
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
rdpixie:
Oh hun I dont think there are any comforting words I can give right now its all so very sudden. Lots and lots of hugs and of course if you need anything here in Pompey or just wanna meet up and chat to someone I'm here!
spamtwo:
*hug*