14th May 2021 Dad’s diary

I am trying to write my dad’s diary today, which may seem like an odd task for a daughter to do, so let me tell you why this is important.

My dad has spent a long time in hospital. Most of that time, he was in an artificial coma, and even after that, there were more operations, more anaesthetics. He has been pumped full of medication and he was drifting in and out of consciousness for weeks. Only very recently has he started to be awake for most of the day, but with very little recollection of what has happened.

His sense of time is completely gone. He has literally no concept of it at all any more. To him, it feels like he’s been in hospital for many years, which is no surprise, since his body had changed beyond recognition. His face is gaunt and pale, his beard is gone. There are massive scars on him now, that weren’t there before, all due to multiple major operations on his abdomen and a tracheotomy thrown in for good measure.

So today, I am trying to write a diary of his life dating from the last week in February to the present day, filling him in with all the things that have been done to him. Giving him an idea of what has happened in his life and in the world. His very own and personal newsflash. It’ll make for quite gruesome reading, I’m afraid and if I diverge to blood and gore crime fiction or graphic horror stories in the days to come, bear with me, I might have to get this out of my system.

Virtually every week during the last few months, there were moments when we thought he couldn’t possible survive. If ever there was a medical roller-coaster, then it’s his journey, starting with an emergency operation due to a perforated bowel, then sepsis, then, to make things just that little bit more interesting and to give it a contemporary twist, Covid-19. My dad, who hadn’t seen a doctor for at least half a century, has certainly made up for it.

From the night he was admitted to the hospital, the staff kept saying, that they didn’t expect him to make it, considering his age and the severity of his problems. Not through the night, not through the following day or week. They also said, that he was putting up a good fight. He was not ready to give up, not ready to go. And speaking to him on the phone, I realized, how grateful he is to be alive, even though we don’t know what life will look like for him. It’s still unclear, how much he will recover in the weeks and months to come. As always, there are no guarantees. And yet, my dad is a picture of gratitude.

I admire that. I can learn a lot from him. Until very recently, I thought I wasn’t doing too bad as far as being grateful was concerned. Turns out, I had no idea what true gratitude was. Yesterday, my dad told me, he was so utterly grateful that he could walk the few metres to the window with his Zimmer frame. That for the first time this year he could see the trees outside with green leaves on them. That made him happy to the point of bringing tears to his eyes. It was quite a humbling experience for me, on the other end of the phone line. My head was buzzing, trying to work out complicated future scenarios, living arrangements, etc., and there he was, my dad, beaming, happy and content, because he had seen a tree. With leaves. That was all it took, all he needed in that very moment. And then I remembered, that he hadn’t seen spring yet. He hadn’t looked out of a window since February! For my dad, seeing a tree brought a smile on his face and to made his life worth while. I honestly didn’t know this, but it turns out my dad’s quite the Yoda! Just ever so slightly less green.

And I was thinking that with such an attitude, he will get through this, no matter what the future holds. He is now eager to get to grips with the past, find out what exactly happened to him, so I’ll have to sit him down and tell him the detailed story of the last two and a half months with all the gory details. Especially with the gory details – he specifically asked for that. It’s like a top trump game. Like a badge of honour. It validates his time spent in hospital, his fight.

Conversations with my dad have changed beyond anything I am familiar with. Our exchanges used to be rather brief. The weather, the progress in his garden and what he was going to cook for his lunch used to be the staples of our communication. Now, we talk about gratitude. Imagine that. This is nothing short of spectacular. My dad is seriously grateful to be alive. He has come a long, long way and by doing so, has even pushed my stubborn soul a bit further on in her journey. Thanks, dad, from your little 51year old girl.