I’m sure that the fact that I’ve hardly posted this month is something that has bothered me more than anybody else, but even so, I felt that I should stop by long enough to say that due to my Dad’s ongoing hospitalisation, inspiration, ‘mental space’ and self-motivation have all been harder to come by than usual just lately.
Dad is still in hospital but has now been moved to another facility in Daventry where the emphasis is on rehab rather than on clinical treatment. In some respects, it could be argued that this must mean that he’s getting better, but it could also be argued just as convincingly that the doctors believe that nothing more can be done for him medically and they’re now just going to see if they can patch him up and get him well enough to go home.
I suspect that the true impact of his recent illness won’t truly become clear to me (or indeed to him) until he is back in his own place. He has a shiny new(-ish) Ford Focus sat in his garage and I fear that he may never drive it again. He has a substantial garden that has given him untold pleasure over the years and I wonder how much time he will be able to spend working in it from now on. If he is effectively housebound, how will this independent individual cope with such reduced circumstances…..or perhaps the question I should be asking is, for how long will he be happy with his wings so severely clipped?
And that is really the ‘best case scenario’ for him. Other less attractive options would see him requiring substantial medical care to the point where a move into a nursing home would start to look like a better option for all concerned. I fear that would rapidly crush his spirit. He will want to go home, even if it’s only for a short time.
Of course, he could live until he’s 100, but, somehow, I doubt it. If this recent episode has unveiled any Big Truths, the main one would be that, at 87, whilst the spirit may be willing, the flesh is struggling to mend itself. The 5 weeks he’s spent in hospital have been a rollercoaster of infections and interventions, of jabs, pills, tests, screens and scans. He’s been pummelled, prodded and poked from every imaginable angle and via every conceivable orifice. Even for a man with a fairly unquenchable spirit, this has laid him low and it has taken him untold amounts of grit to get this far.
One thing is for sure, when my time comes, I hope that I just drop in my tracks, or as Roger McGough once memorably wrote, get run over at an advanced age by a blonde in a red sports car on my way home from an all-night party.