That was what was on the radio as I drove to the hospital.
Of course the roads were full of fuckers driving slow in the fast lane.
And it was raining.
Ten minutes before I was whining to MPS that I had so much to do and couldn’t decide what to tackle first.
Christmas shizzle, bleaching the grout in the bathroom, sorting the dumping ground that was once Moo’s room, sitting on my arse staring at the wall…
And then the phone rang.
It was my mum.
‘Kel, your dad is in hospital. It is his heart.’
‘I am on my way’
And thus I landed in the predicament where my brain could not work out how to drive AND turn the damn radio down at the same time as I put my Mario Kart moves into play dodging all the slow fuckers out for a Sunday drive in the rain.
As I pulled up in the hospital car park, I wondered if they will actually KNOW ME BY NAME in the Emergency Department. Given the fact that a member of my family has been in there practically every week for the last 3 months.
I should get a plaque or something.
Or at least my own car park.
The waiting room was packed, the ambulance bay full, people in various states of tears and/or moaning surrounded me as I walked up to the admin window and asked to be let in to see my dad.
Cause I know the drill.
These poor bastards with their whining and their crying and their bleeding and their whispering ‘how come she got let in?’ don’t know shit.
I should totally write a book. An E-BOOK. And then they can download that shizzle while they are walking in the door.
‘Kelley’s guide to Emergency Room Etiquette’ or ‘how to get out the back to see your loved one in one easy step’
People can pay me in Valium.
I wonder if Amazon has a gift registry for pharmaceticals.
(sorry, I forgot, we are banning Amazon this week aren’t we? Cause of that fucking disgusting book… OK, I wonder if my local bottle shop and pharmacy take PayPal?)
Given that I know this Emergency Department VERY VERY WELL, when the reception chicky babe told me he was in cubicle 3 I breathed a sigh of relief.
One, two and three are the cubicles furthest from the nurses station. For the less ill and the more ‘difficult’.
Knowing that my daddy is far from difficult and more on the cute and adorable end of the personality spectrum, I was able to slow my heart rate down from OMG SHE IS GUNNA BLOW to the normal OMG SHE IS NOT GUNNA BLOW NOW BUT IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME as I made my way – sans receptionist cause hello, I fucking LIVE here – to cubicle three.
There was my daddy, hooked up to a myriad of machines, cannula in his hand and oxygen mask nonchalantly hanging around his neck.
‘My little girl!’
‘Hey, daddy. How you doing?’
‘Bored. I want to go home’
‘You didn’t need to come, I am fine.’
We lock eyes and the real conversation happens there.
I’m glad you came.
I talk to the doctor, a lovely 12 year old, he has had two ECG’s one in the ambulance and another when he got there.
Bloods have been drawn, medications given.
I check the machine attached to him, oxygen 98, blood pressure 112/74.
Pretty fucking good for a man who has survived Hodgkins, 3 brain tumours and the removal of his pituitary gland and not on blood pressure meds.
He has gallstones and apparently some damage to his stomach due to the enzymes he has to take to digest his food.
And the pharmacy of medications to replace what his pituitary used to provide.
I help him remove all the sticky pads from his chest. The chest I used to snuggle into as a child.
Our eyes meet again.
I love you.
I love you.
As he waits for the monitors to be removed before he is discharged, I kiss them both goodbye and make my way out of the rabbit warren that is the Emergency Department.
And hope that this is the last time I see that damn building for a very very fucking long time.