That’s what everyone keeps saying every time they come in to my parents room. Every time. For the last 2 days that I’ve been here, the same track of Tibetan Buddhist chanting has been playing, continuously, on repeat. It’s not a complaint, it’s beautiful music, slightly sad, but very relaxing.
Which helps.
My dad has rallied since yesterday; indeed, he’s sufficiently ‘with it’ to decide that he doesn’t want morphine. Morphine takes the person away, not the pain – at least that’s the way I feel about it, and so does my dad. Which is not what he wants, he doesn’t like being asleep all the time (he hates the fact that he’s constantly asleep) – and so upping the morphine is not a plan he likes. So now, we’ve gone for fentanyl, or more accurately he’s gone for an increased dose of fentanyl.
Which is why, despite the fact I was vagely unsure about the standard of my driving on the way here (having had several occasions when I thought “where the fuck am I” – normally reserved for very long motorway journeys (not for short ones)) I decided to drive to Newbury to pick up my dad’s prescription. Despite the fact that the directions were a bit vague and I was tired, I drove.
I got there, and drove up and down the road searching. Eventually pulling over into a row of shops which looked promising, having realised that there wasn’t a pharmacy there, I decided to pull into a parking space and ask for directions. Unfortunately I didn’t realise that after my U-turn I’d ended up parked next to a 2 ft wide pavement running between the turn off and the spaces; this was so narrow and short as to not actually be visible from my car or in my mirrors. If I’d’ve been awake I’m fairly sure I’d’ve registered that I’d stopped next to it. But I wasn’t. So I drove over it. Which isn’t great….. As I twigged (at about 5 miles an hour) that the front wheel was going rather rapidly up on the kerb – and hit the brakes, the exhaust clouted the kerb edge. Since then the car’s had a ‘rattle’ at speed. I can’t see any damage – and it’s not pulling, but I’ll have to check tyre wear to see that I’ve not thrown the tracking out.
My brain is funny.
My brain has this ability to completely ignore something; block it out competely and entirely and sort of deal with it in momentary chunks. I don’t quite know why; it’s not a concious decision to not think about something. Well, sometimes it is, but generally it’s just a natural put something aside. It’s how I manage to work or drive, or cope when things are bad.
It’s funny though; this time I’m dreaming. I don’t normally dream. Or more accurately I don’t remember my dreams; not at all; not even aware that I’ve dreamt. But now I’ve been having dreams. Dreams I remember. Dreams that occur as little flashbacks during the day. I dreamt about my piano; goddess know’s why. My piano’s music stand is broken, it’s missing the bottom bit, (it’s W shaped, but the bit of wood that the music’s meant to stand on is missing) – I don’t know why, but I dreamt about that.
I’ve dreamt about work, I’ve dreamt a lot about death. It’s very strange for me, as someone who’s not used to dreaming, to dream.
It’s very cold here, in my parents house.
Cold cold.
It’s always cold here.
I managed to get the tumble drier here. I should get my mum to take a picture of me with it; then I can have my 10 years apart picture of me although, to be fair, last time it was a spin drier…
The coincidences that brought me here stick in my head at the moment. The servicing the car, the filling up when I didn’t need to, the walking the wrong way so I’d hear my phone, Trey being off…
And the fact that it’s gone from bright sunlight (when I parked my car it was swelteringly hot) – to constant rain. I thought, when I got back in my car to head back to Bristol that it was always seemed odd how the world didn’t reflect your mood… so you get beautiful bright sunny days when you’re feeling shit. And since then it’s rained.
A nurse by any other name
A while ago, when one of my friends became ill, I visited her, and we had this discussion. She is-was-will_be_again a teacher; and I’m a nurse in training. We discussed whether she was a teacher outside work (she was, back when she was); and whether I’m a nurse outside work – and more and more I feel I am. As soon as something medical comes up I know I’ll be involved, it’s not a bad thing, just a thing. Just the way it is. But today I really felt it. Here, with my dad, it’s given me coping skills, which is good, but it’s also given me interaction skills that I’m not sure I want to use here. My mum was jokingly referring to my dad as our patient (since she used to be a nurse too) – and I said “nope, he’s my dad” – but, still I made the NHS grade jokes about washing (“at Alton Towers you have to pay to get soaked with cold water, here you get it free”) – and I felt myself distancing as it were, from the pain.
But I just spent a few minutes sat with him, just quietly, and that; that was good. I don’t know how long he’ll survive. He’s drinking three sips of fluid (Enlive or diralite) every few hours. The only solid to pass his lips has been the Fentanyl losenges. But, tonight, he seems much more awake, and marginally more with it than he has been. Which is nice, at least for us. And it’s what he wants.
But, I didn’t know until we were washing him (which in itself was a very odd experience, something I find hard to come to terms with), but he’s got a lesion on his head. I thought earlier today – ‘at least the cancer’s not broken the skin’ – but it’s started to now. Which is fucking awful. He’s come so far, can’t he die comfortably? Can’t the cancer let him go without that?
But however he washes, despite using the same old deoderant he’s always used (bizzare spanish one, oddly enough) his smell’s changed. I recognise the smell and it’s not a good one. It’s a terminal cancer smell.
I think though, one thing it’s reenforced is my opinion that you should do a job you love; it’s no good earning millions of pounds and saving it for when you retire; because you might get hit by a bus tomorrow and the only thing you’ll ever have done was your job. And if you’re not happy with that, then…
I would of course be happier if I wasn’t having to run back to Bath via Bristol to sort out university stuff on Friday – because the Programme Leader (i.e. the bloke in charge of the course) doesn’t know if I’d have problems if I submitted my work late. Why I bothered to inform him, I’m not sure. Frustration abounds whenever I speak to him…. so I get to spend Friday running around like a maniac.
