My dad, poor fucked up ol’ sod that he is, only just got back from a Papworth Hospital sleep clinic today (well, technically yesterday).
Teresa and I wanted to go see him/the Palmer family, as I was delivering for Amazon/Morrisons that evening. But for various reasons that idea fell through.
Dad was playing his martyred paranoiac role, whether in response to this – us not visiting them after all – or other stuff (his relations with family at home have been suffering, unsurprisingly), I’m not sure. So in the end I decided I’d pop round briefly, on my own, after work.
And what a fucking nightmare that turned into. By the time I’d arrived, he’d drunk most – one and a half – of two bottles of white wine. And when I arrived, or rather just after, he came staggering down the stairs, moaning and spitting/drooling. A truly horrific sight.
Turns out he’s only tried to drink some oil of feckin’ cloves!
I knew this was bad. But I googled it, to check. Sure enough: if ingested, it’s toxic, get medical help urgently. So, I rang 111; a totally and utterly useless waste of time. After over twenty minutes queuing no one had even picked up my call. So I decided to ring 999.
That was another saga in itself.
God help our poor NHS*, hacked to pieces and starved to death by disaster capitalist Tories, till it’s the shambolic mess we now have to deal with. And even so, it remains a treasure we’ll be utter fools to lose (but look at Brexit; we are prize fools).
We got a call back from a paramedic. What a joke and waste of time that was! Just reiterating what my first call had already established. And they insisted on quizzing dad, despite him being so fucked up. Do they do ‘20 questions’ with mashed up road-crash casualties. ‘Which of your limbs is missing, sir?’ Fucking insane!
Anyway, about an hour later an ambulance arrives. And over the next hour or so they examine dad, and, eventually, we persuade him to go in the ambulance to A&E.
He hates going to hospital, esp’ A&E. And I can totally understand and sympathise. You’re very ill, and you’re left, unattended, in the seven circles of Hell, for many, many hours, along with loads of other hapless paupers.
After my first suicide attempt, several months back, I had a horrible visit to Peterborough A&E: seven hours waiting! And then, when you do finally see someone, you wonder why you bothered going at all.
I wanted to feel that I’d done something good: visiting dad. And then when it all went weird and horrible, trying to look after him. But I’m not sure if I might not’ve helped trigger the whole sorry episode. A fear that fills me with guilt and horror.
Guilt and horror. Dad’s territory. Pure 100% charcoal black negativity. It’s so corrosive and destructive!
And there I am, telling dad he needs to change how he responds. Stop drinking, and think positive. First and foremost, quit the boozing. So what do I do en-route home? Stop for a pint. And things go down hill from there, for me now, as well as dad.
* As a devout atheist that’s tantamount to saying ‘we’re screwed’.