Legendary // H.S

59.

'Most of them dead

The rest of them dying'

*

The next 24 hours are crucial.

That's what the doctor said when they finally managed to stabilise Dad after his seizure. That's what they've continued to tell me when I ask every half hour how he's doing. They tell me there's not much more they can do right now other than what they've already given him. It's up to his body to try and fight it now. The problem is, I don't think he can. He's so tired, his body just wants to rest. But I don't want to live without him. I'm not sure I can, I don't know how to.

The doctor told me Dad contracted pneumonia. They don't know how; a visitor may have brought the bacteria into the home without realising they were a carrier. But what started as a slight cough has since radically developed into something life-threatening.

All the symptoms are there. Headaches, fevers, shortness of breath, clammy and blue skin, confusion. That part is especially prominent in older people, which isn't ideal considering his Alzheimer's diagnosis. Alongside this are the convulsions and decreased consciousness which explains his fits yesterday. He hasn't woken since, though. Just slept through the trauma his body has gone through while I remain by his side, holding his cold, pale hand, with no idea of how long I'll have this privilege.

I haven't really thought of anything but the fact that he may not make it out of this hospital. The thoughts seem to be my only company, barely registering Harry's presence whenever he's ventured in. He understood early on I just needed to be alone with Dad, so he's waited in the hallway all night. I wish I had the energy to talk to him, to voice what's going though my head, but the very notion of saying it out loud is terrifying. If it's put out into the universe then it becomes real. While I'm aware of how very imminent this is, not having to verbalise it almost gives me a moment to hold onto his life a little longer without admitting that it's hanging in the balance.

Twenty-four hours doesn't seem like enough time to spend with him. Twenty-four hours doesn't seem like enough time to say goodbye. Twenty-four hours doesn't seem like enough time to accept that I'll be alone.

That is the fact of the matter. When Dad goes, whether it be today, tomorrow or even in a few years, I will be alone. Not in the sense that it's just me in a room, no one around, but in the sense that there will be no one in my corner like him. No one to hold my hand when I have to go to the police after something dreadful happens to me. No one to comfort me during all my nightmares, even when I don't want to be touched. No one to cheer me on with every small victory. He's not just my Dad. He's my best friend, and while I've found a new family to be a part of, nothing will compare to the bond I have with him. No matter how much I care for and love them.

He won't be able to walk me down the aisle.

I'd never really considered marriage before. It always seemed like an outdated ceremony for people to brag about their wealth. Perhaps it is. But I always knew that if I did find someone to spend the rest of my life with, and if I wanted a celebration for it, he'd be by my side. Not to hand me off to whoever decides that I am enough, but because we are a packaged deal. We cannot be separated. Now we might be.

I'm holding his hand still, my head resting over his stomach as I rest my eyes. I don't want to sleep, it feels wrong to switch my mind off while he's battling the odds, but I can't help the way my eyes drift off after some time. His breathing is ragged, oxygen being pumped into him through some tubes near his nose, the cannister large enough to take up a substantial part of the space next to his bed. When his chest moves up and down it's so slight, so subtle, I barely feel it, and I have to keep moving my hand to his lips to check if any air is leaving them. Every time he is, but somehow it seems to be getting weaker, though I assume that's my mind tricking me. If anything were seriously wrong the machines would go off and nurses would rush in as they had done yesterday.