A week or so ago, I stood at the end of my elderly dad’s hospital bed while he squinted at me and asked “Daddy?”
Just a couple of hours earlier, he’d been rushed from his care home with pneumonia and possible sepsis, and ‘conscious’ moments like this were fleeting and rare. A few days previously, he’d been wide awake, taking several attempts to record a wedding message for my niece. While my eldest daughter held up her iPhone, he amiably stumbled over the details. He managed it more-or-less in the end, with many a chuckle between takes.
I didn’t know either of his parents; both of them had lost their lives in the years before my birth. With my dad’s milky blue eyes struggling to focus on me, I suddenly recalled a photograph from the 1930s of my grandad playing with his son – his only child – in the sand of a Suffolk beach. It felt like he was in the room – a presence handing Dad over in a game of familial pass-the-parcel, saying “Here you go: We brought him into this world, you’re seeing him out.”
Since then, my dad’s rallied a bit. He’s responded well to antibiotics and he’s been moved into a ward with other semi-conscious old men. It’s still early days and he still has a mountain to climb. Whether that climb has an end point that involves falling off a cliff or dozing in front of daytime TV with his care home cohort remains to be seen but the latter’s looking more likely now.
All in all, Dad’s bucked the trend. His parents died in their 60s and he’s overcome a history of high blood pressure, heart problems, and more recently, diabetes and Parkinsons, to come within grasping distance of his 90s.
When he was my age, he was fit and healthy, a former cross country runner, and a fairly active dad with no apparent sign of the health problems to come. Of course, I can see the many parallels between the pair of us already – we both have a compromised neurology after all.
I know any straight comparisons between us will involve lots of negatives for me in terms of balance and mobility, dependence on catheters (a sure fire way to bring microbes on board), a now thankfully distant history of cigarette smoking (including the odd dodgy one), a desk job and the lack of exercise that comes with it, and the timebomb that is antibiotic resistance. I’m not 100% sure how my pescatarian diet and the fact that I have only a dash of semi skimmed in my tea and low fat marg on my toast offsets all that, but it might be high time for me to knuckle down and set about safeguarding my future.
It’s just that right now it’s impossible for me not to imagine a day when I might confuse my daughter for my mum.