I was trying to explain it to Lovely Bloke last night. You get to the hospital car park. You triple check you have remembered everything for Dad. And yourself. You put a layer on – it’s cold outside. Then remember to take it off because it confuses Dad to have clothes around him that he’s not wearing. And the ward is hot. Then you cry because you don’t want to walk alone, again, into the hospital. You don’t know what you’re going to find. The memories of the day Dad fell and hit his head – it’s like a flashback – they are so strong – that’s what I feel – the heightened chest tightening as you walk in.
The relief when Dad is in his bay – Bay G – G5. And there’s someone with him, chatting, helping him fiddle with a cushion. Is he agitated? Is he ok? Has he eaten? Drunk? Been for a wee? What’s happening with the stitches? Will they fall out by themselves? He’s not had his hair washed in a month.
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