I’m actually writing this a few days ahead whilst in a jotting things down sort of mood, I’m going to be in Wales for the next week on my hols so thought I’d drop a quick note to say I’ll be offline until Sunday 12th June (god, even writing that feels so good). When I say offline, there will be the #30DaysWild Instagram photos going up daily on my feed, as well as a few sneaky peeks of my travels, but for the most part I am intending to disconnect and immerse myself in literature thanks to the Hay Festival, and the fact that I am going to be in the middle of nowhere.
I’ve spoken quite freely on the blog about the past year, well not even that long, only since last September about journeying forward in life. A lot of it felt like I was waiting to get to this point. To have finished my studies, to be bordering on the verge of “what next?” and to be able to bask in the glory of knowing one chunk of pent up anxiety is behind me. Well, I probably don’t feel as unwound as I was hoping to be, but that may change in the next few days (I’m writing this on Tuesday night, so a few days to go until the big trip).
For the first time in a while I feel overwhelmed, I guess the past ten months or so has been auto pilot. Keeping it together for the sake of those around me, keeping it together more so for the sake of my own sanity if I think too heavily on the matter. The future isn’t bleak, it’s just a little blurry right now, not necessarily for myself but more so for the life I still have left with my Dad. I don’t like to dwell on the negatives too much of the illness that has been thrust upon him in the past year, if I did I wouldn’t wake up in the morning, right now I know it’s my turn to be the pillar of support.
But a harmless tweet the other day struck me, describing IPF (his illness) as terminal. This was a word I hadn’t encountered before whilst trying to determine his health, I’m not a fool, I know the prognosis is dismal and I know the future relies more so on a successful lung transplant than anything else in order to “save him”. But for his condition to be given that dreaded word, terminal, reminded me that he is a sick man, something I’ve not wanted to call him for so long. In the back of my mind this still felt temporary, I felt one day he would jump up, back into his work van and be the Dad I’ve known for 26 years. But this illness isn’t temporary, it’s vicious, soul destroying and steals his every breath, quite literally.
All these thoughts have swirled in my head, sub consciously in the past few days and I feel they’re starting to breed which can only hold a negative impact on my own health and my own mental well being. Five years ago, I would probably be a wreck, hiding petrified in a corner whereas now I feel some essence of empowerment to fight his corner. He’s sixty years of age, I am going to do everything I can to ensure he gets the care and life he deserves, I could never put myself in his shoes and understand what he’s going through, but I can give him cherished memories and some small distraction to help him understand there is a life worth living, even if he doesn’t feel that way every day.
That was probably the main reason I booked this trip to Wales. To take him out of this house, away from this town and to somewhere new so he could be reminded there is still adventure out there. Adventure doesn’t have to be trekking or foraging, it can simply be driving somewhere unfamiliar and enlightening your soul by surrounding yourself with a fresh clear view of what is just out there for us. Now I come to think of it, I probably need this holiday just as much as him. A pause button, for one week to remove the tags attached to me, to simply be human and to revel in everything I adore. Literature. Nature. Music. My family. To simply sit, and to observe.
So, have a great week everybody. I’ll be back soon.