It's strange. Yesterday I couldn't actually wait to come home. Now I'm back? I half wish I was still at Uni. To me at this very moment, even if I did pull my fair share of the weight with tidying up and try to dissipate tension between different people...I'd seriously consider being back there. Perhaps I'm being hasty. Perhaps I just want to cling to the tail-end of his academic year and not let go. Perhaps I'm just terrified.
Still, I've got my dentist appointment tomorrow, and then I'm meeting Mike for the afternoon and wandering around town for a bit. I plan to hand in my CV to a temping agency tomorrow so I can start to find work ASAP. I'd like to be able to put away another £1,300 or so this year. (Thus maxing out my ISA account). I'm determined to not have to rent a house when I leave University. I know if I do that, I'll just never end up getting a house of my own...and owning a house is something I'm taking quite seriously as a part of my future.
I've come to the conclusion that Lever-Arch files breed when they think no-one will notice. I took about four over to my grandad's side of the loft in order to make room in my side, and I still have an extra four spare. It's altogether rather peculiar. Still.
I watched the Simpson's Movie this evening. It wasn't really anything to shout about I didn't think. I prefer the TV series...not as long winded. Dad got the DVD and thought I might like to borrow it. Speaking of my father, my grandparents told me about a blood-test and scans and whatnot that he'd recently had to have...I was told information I would rather not have known. What's ironic is that they 'thought they'd already told me' about one aspect of the news...even if I didn't know the other.
Excuse my following language...but how the fuck did they assume that I knew he had a fucking tumour pressing against his brain? Like I'm told anything. I don't want to be! I'm 19 years old and I know that I've never gotten on well with my father, and I know other teenagers lose their parents every day...but I live with his parents, who are basically /my/ parent role models. My Nan just stood there so calmly when she also told me that dad's brain was rotting. Fucking. Rotting. Deteriorating. Wasting away. Put it how you want, it's all the same. What a waste. What an absolute waste of a fantastic mind. I may not get on with my father...but when he thinks about something - especially in a literary sense - his mind is amazing. And now it's deteriorating...something to do with the cerebral gland or something. I don't care.
I didn't know. I didn't know it was a god damned tumour that made him so slow at speech...no wonder he's been getting worse recently. That couple with the toxins they found in his blood would be enough to make anyone have slurred speech.
I'm a little angry for myself...but I'm more indignant for him. My dad. The guy who actually got emotional over memories of things that happened over a decade ago. The guy who's so good with kids. The guy who wrote an entire novel and just let it sit on his shelf because he didn't have any reason to try and get it published. I'm angry on behalf of my grandparents, too. The people who have sacrificed and given up so much and so many opportunities (so so much time!) to help my father in any way they can.
But this is the last time I'm going to mention this here. I wanted to be able to just get it all down in one day and not elongate it by writing up everything bit by bit. I can move on from needing to write about it now. It's relegated to settling in the pit of my stomach.
My dad's mortal. After everything he's been through, I was starting to wonder...but he is, and it scares me.
