f4f3 | Visiting hours are over

Back from the hospital. My Dad looked pretty much... like my Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, not under the covers, his colour was good, and he had socks on with his sandals.
The Victoria Infirmary is in two parts, a Victorian sprawl, made up of several buildings on the side of a hill, and the super-new building across the road. My Dad checked into the one with the most atmosphere (and the A&E).
The chronology of yesterday evening goes something like, he went for a walk, he came home, he napped, and he couldn't be woken from the nap. Finally he came round, a bit groggy,a bit grey, and by that time the emergency doctor was on his way, via NHS 24. The doctor insisted he went to the A&E, they checked him in, and 4 hours later they had enough test results to decide he should stay in for some more test results.

All of those results show that there's nothing bad going on right this minute.

At the same time, the cardiac team who've been dealing with his case got in touch to discuss the bypass he's being scheduled for. The nurse actually tried to phone him at home from the super-new part of the Victoria, to be told that he was just across the road.

So she popped over, and gave him the full run-down on what the operation would be, what he could expect, everything, in fact, except when it would happen. He's been told that he'll get a date tomorrow, before being checked out. I've told him not to leave until they give him a date. Bed blocking be dammed.

At the end of visiting time, he walked us to the door of the ward. "I feel like a fraud", he said, gesturing at the ashen faced patients we passed.

It was good to see him. Good to see him being him. And it's horrible to think that this is the start, not the end.