Around a month ago my dad, a hoarder, not just a 'Lets just keep this for now,' kind of a hoarder, more a 'Lets keep everything forever,' kind of a hoarder (those of you who have read 'Diary of a Hoarder's daughter' will know the extent of it), asked if I would accompany him on a visit to his GP.
A little concerned at this request, as he's never asked me before, and suspecting maybe there may be something he needed to share with me, I went. I drove from where I live, 7 miles over Caerphilly Mountain to his house to take him a mile up the road to see his GP. He'd told me he had a few aches and pains and a few other things. I know he wanted to discuss that a dermatologist had found a patch of skin cancer on top of his head which had been removed and he was ordered to wear a hat while outside at all times. They'd removed it all but also had given him a leaflet 'about Cancer' and given him a number for a MacMillan nurse who was off for 2 weeks. He was confused - did he or didn't he have 'the big C' as he called it?
After greeting the GP like a good friend, he mentioned he was tired a lot, he was drinking a lot, he had a bit of stiffness, he was finding it difficult to swallow his food, he was having breathlessness going downhill as well as the uphill problems he'd before. The GP looked at him kindly, took his vitals and said 'but you're 95 this year, you have to expect a few aches and pains.' She booked him for a blood test and said to keep an eye on things and report back if nothing got better.
Just before Easter he told me he was still having difficulty swallowing and was having to drink lots of water with each meal. He also had leg ache, was tired and breathless. I was a little worried but thought surely the GP would have picked up something dreadful although he's almost 95 and as she said he has to expect to decline in health a bit.
Easter Monday was a bank holiday and I was away. at 8.23pm on Easter Tuesday I had a call from the local hospital 'Did you know your father is in hospital?' I didn't. 'It's OK,' she said 'we'll look after him now he's here but what are you going to do about Ant?' (my brother).
Ant, 57, has Autism and the hospital clearly expected me to fetch him and take him home. I drove over the mountain and came in to see dad on the ward. Apparently he'd travelled to see the GP,
on the bus. The GP had seen him and sent him to A&E immediately. He also went there ON THE BUS and had to walk half a mile from the bus stop. On arrival he had a funny turn and they whipped him onto a trolley and the next thing he was in a bed and they called me. Neither Dad nor Ant had called me earlier as neither own a mobile phone.
Two days later the hospital called me at work to arrange an appointment to meet with us the following Tuesday to discuss treatment and what we could do moving forward. They said they had put a camera down his throat and now needed to discuss the results. At this point I began to panic. The vibes weren't good. I asked what they'd found and there was an ominous silence. 'Er we don't give results over the phone'. this sounded worse and I pointed out I'd prefer to hear it by phone, whatever it was, than worry all weekend. She asked was I sure. I said I was. She said they'd put a camera down and found 'an extremely nasty malignant looking mass in his oesphophogus.' They didn't yet know what it was but in their experience it definitely wasn't good. The biopsy would confirm but we should come in on Tuesday 5th June. I had to work out how to tell Ant in a way he'd understand. Dad was allowed out of hospital after being given the same news, and some protein drinks to keep him going. I went to get him on 4th June to take him home. he needed the venthlon needle thing taken out. The nurse came to remove it and he said "can I keep this?" I cringed. she said 'NO'. he persisted 'Honestly, I need it as it would be perfect for the light switch in my bathroom otherwise I will have to go buy a whole new fitting...' She looked at him somewhat bemused and repeated 'No - it has body fluids on and has to be thrown out.' She took it and left.
'Aw that's mean.' he says ' you're a mean girl and you're not my friend any more.' She looked a tad amused, - being in her mid thirties. Dad, not having given up yet, stood up and directed his attention at a young male nurse nearby. "She's really mean... Oh. Where are you from?' I cringed but there was nowhere to hide. 'From India' says the young nurse. 'Ah yes. India. Indian' says dad. 'Yes we have people just like you in our street. yes Indians right ok. well lovely to meet you.' he held out his hand. I took him home.
5th June was the appointment in the hospital Endoscopy unit. I dropped Ant and Dad in the concourse telling them to wait while I parked and headed sharpish to the multi-storey car park. I usually avoid these dark mysterious caverns from hell at all costs. The spaces are tight, there's cars all over the place (obs), no spaces, signs which make little sense everywhere and cameras lurking in every dark hole. People are rushing about and everybody's stressed. Spaces are rarer than a live plant outside Aldi in a heatwave and I wasn't having the best day ever. Outside the car park was a height warning sign, a barrier, many other signs and lots of yellow paint. I spotted a 'VISITORS AND PATIENTS ONLY' sign at the entrance and with a sigh of relief as there were a rather impatient few drivers behind me, I entered the pits of hell. I drove round floor 1, nothing. Up to floor 2, round and round, nothing. Up to floor 3 same story. 'Dear Parking Angels, saints and Sinners, will someone PLEASE give me a space,' I screamed, like a Karen in a supermarket and thumped poor Freddie's steering wheel in frustration. 'Please!' I drove up another floor as I shook the pain from my fist. I turned the corner and there I swear, glowing in the far corner was a space being lit by the sun like a gift from above.
'Thank you parking fairies' I said, out loud and reversed Freddie into the space. Just for the sake of my sanity and because I don't trust those places after stories I've heard about being an inch over the line etc etc, I checked all 4 wheels were inside - yes. I checked for anything saying I couldn't park there, no hatches - no. No signs on the wall. I walked over to a blue sign in the corner of the car park. The sign was in Welsh and there was no English translation next to it. Another sign on the wall said 'do not park on the hatches'. I hadn't so I left the car park by the back stairs and on to meet dad and Ant and go on to the appointment.
We were all ushered in after a short wait and told straight that the camera had found his oesophogus to be 90% reduced in width and surrounded but a malignant tumour, which had since been confirmed as Cancer. In short, at 94, there was little they could do. Chemotherapy would make him very sick as soon as it was started and his body may not take well to it. Operating was not an option due to the advanced stage. The final option was to insert a stent to push the tumour back so he can at least eat or get something down him. This would be fitted on June 16th 2025 in a different hospital.
We all left the hospital feeling totally devastated, each of us processing things in different ways. We walked to the car as dad said he needed air to clear his head. I linked arms with him, he felt very frail. It was so hard to stay strong for him and Ant. We have never been a family to share feelings so we walked in silence, none of us knowing quite what to say.
Dad spoke. 'So that's it then!'
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