What If?

Later, I have to ask my father some questions. We need to make contingency plans. These won’t be comfortable questions. Last week’s appointment ended with papers being marked ‘urgent’. Not so urgent he needed instant admission to hospital, but the widened eyes of the medical staff involved widened my own.
I had hoped it wouldn’t be connected to Myeloma, but it looks like there’s a high chance it is.

My father has been subdued, but we have both attempted to attack the week as normal. It has passed in a blur, perhaps thanks to work taking up my time and – thankfully – my attention.
The next appointment – a CT scan – will be tuesday morning.
Later this morning, after I finally feel I can sleep, I have to ask him how to tackle the situation.
I cannot drive. He can, and seems determined to do so.
But.
What if it’s bad news? What if he has to be admitted to hospital?
Practical questions. Horrible context.

What of bad news? What do either of us do? Dwelling on ‘what ifs’ is not a good place to be in, but it looks likely the best news the CT scan can bring is another course of chemotherapy to return my father to a zombie-like state for the best part of six months. And, with this the third hit – even if he beats it a third time – how many times will it come back?

I wish he could catch a break. Stop having setbacks every time he looks set to improve. He’s so tired of it, of hospitals, appointments, pills and pills and pills. I wish he could live out his final years in peace, dying of old age. I’ll likely be there to see that happen, traumatising as that will be, it’s infinitely preferable to the potential agony of cancer.
He has worked so hard for so long, years after his ‘retirement’. He feels like he hasn’t done enough for me, that what passes to me in his will won’t be enough. As if that’s what I’d really be greatful to him for. I am the one who owes him. He has had such patience with me, supported me in far greater ways than money can offer, but I have nothing to show him. I have, for quite a few years, told myself to ensure I have something published before he passes away. Something to show him that all the money and support and time he has given me wasn’t in vain. Not that it would matter to him, but in that way, we are the same; convinced that we haven’t done enough for eachother.

We will have to take it as it comes, and see if there is a fight that can be won – odds that can beaten again.
I must try and get some sleep, because staying awake longer will not stop this week from happening.