It brought tears to my eyes when the hospital staff clapped my Dad’s discharge from hospital. My Mum and I clung onto each side of the wheelchair as the porter wheeled Dad out. As we neared our house, all of our friends and neighbours had turned out to welcome Dad back, cheering our return.
It was a moment that Mum and I didn’t think would happen. The last two months were our private nightmares, each of us afraid to answer the phone, expecting the worst. But now, finally my Dad had come home.
Mum and I would never forgive ourselves, blaming his symptoms on man flu. It was Dad himself who had phoned the doctor in the end. I was surprised they even had his medical records, I don’t ever recall him seeing the Doctor. The ambulance had been at the door within twenty minutes. They took dad off leaving the two of us bewildered on the doorstep. I didn’t see my Dad again for twelve long weeks.
We made a makeshift bedroom downstairs, in the front room, as he would never have been able to climb the stairs. He was so weak and tired, the slightest effort to do anything wore him out. He had lost so much weight that his clothes hung off him. I knew it was my dad, but the illness had changed his whole demeanour. He no longer stood up straight, his stance was far less confident. It was hard seeing this shell of a man who had been so full of energy, just lying on the bed. It was hard on Mum as well, my parents had led a very social life, and belonged to various clubs. They weren’t party animals as such, but they made sure they enjoyed themselves when they went out. Their friends all rallied around to visit him. He would put on a brave face when they first arrived and laugh at their jokes, but it became obvious to them that five minutes was all he could endure, and they would make their excuses and leave. Mum tried to cheer him up with making all his favourite foods. She was upset when she remembered that one of the effects of the virus on my dad was that he had lost his senses of taste and smell, and that he was not able to enjoy them as he had previously.
The hospital had arranged weekly physiotherapy sessions for him and also speech therapy twice a week. Both Mum and I sat in on these, learning how we could help dad and his personal fight back to his normal life.
It was almost twelve weeks to the day, after his return home that he started to turn a corner. The doctors have told us that my Dad may never fully recover as the after effects of this particular virus are not yet known, so we are taking each day as it comes.
