Sometime in May:
I watched him hobble across the room like an old man.
“Did you run today?” asked mum, her voice filled with concern.
“Ran 10kms around the base.” He answered.
“Do you really think you should be running with your back like this?” My eyes darted back and forth between the two.”
“It doesn’t hurt while I’m running, it’s fine.” His tone of voice ended the conversation.
“But otherwise you’re walking like an old man,” muttered mum, in a voice only audible enough for me to hear as she left the kitchen.
I sighed and offered up a silent prayer. I didn’t like this, and it wasn’t going away.
2nd of June:
All sorts of medicines and drugs were strewn on the table beside him. It was my turn to sit by the bed and eat dinner with together. He opened his eyes slowly and recognized me. I sat down on the chair and took his hand. His skin was white and wrinkly from spending so many days confined in bed.
He greeted me in a low, raspy voice. I held his food while he struggled into a comfortable position. I strained myself to keep the conversation lively.
“Don’t let this question your faith in God,” he said in his half-alert state. His eyes flickered shut as my voice filled the room, and he didn’t open them again. I realised the drugs had taken affect and slipped out.
His groans don’t scare me now as much as they used too.
Mum called the ambulance to come take him away. The morphine wasn't good enough, and he was calling out in pain.
Went to visit him today. He smelt like the hospital beds. I don’t like the dark corridors of that prison.
I nearly cried after talking to him on the phone today. It’s like dealing with the silly demands a child. His voice is so drawn out from all the drugs as has taken.
The doctors are sending him home today.