Breath out again

The Old Man's in hospital.
amongst the barrage of tests they did yesterday evening was one (evidently a blood test) that suggested he was neutropenic - which is low in particular white cells - and is a normal complication of Chemo, and moreover, leaves him vulnerable to infection.
No matter what folk say about our health service, in this case I have nothing but praise for all the staff connected (even in the most peripheral way - the porters were polite and charming, never mind the Doctors and Nurses and other health professionals).
He's gone down with some sort of (as yet unknown but they'll identify it by morning) infection and they've pumped him full of brand-spanking-new secret-list-style antibiotics (because of this neutropenia) that most bugs have yet to build a resistance to.
Within two hours of the IV antibiotics he was compos mentis again, and pretty much his old self (and hungry, thank god).
Kept in overnight (in a side room).
With luck we'll get him back tomorrow.

Panic over for the time being. V.knowledgeable Quack opined that his time has not yet come - and gave convincing reasons thereof - all of which I've forgotten in sense of relief generated by same opinion, but am reassured nevertheless.

Sometimes I'm such a big girl's blouse. Try to be stoical about it all, but sometimes it just fails me.

Missed Spurs beating Chelsea, as well. But don't really care that much.

Blast

Visited him in his sideroom. Was V.hopeful until found he was not eating. A particularly nice nurse got him some food supplement drink thing, and he managed about half of it.
The Docs told Mum that the radiotherapy which dealt with the sternal tumour had probably damaged both Trachea and Oesophagus - which may explain both eating and speaking difficulties.
I suspect he feels the loss of dignity very much in this situation.
He seems to micro-sleep in the middle of conversations, sometimes in the middle of sentences. And he dreams in these microsleeps, and the dreams are very vivid.
For some reason or other he assumed I was doing a parachute jump, the notion of which I had to reluctantly disabuse him. Oh well. I told him people were looking forward to seeing him on his birthday (24th November). He looked a little down and said 'but I'll still be in here'. Tried to tell him he'll be back home by Friday, albeit with a zimmer frame, but he looked inward, and didn't say anything. Spent most of visiting time in mute incomprehension, but I held his hand for most of it and tried to jolly things up. Bought him his newspaper (for the crossword, and for old times sake - in his later life he had worked in Fleet Street). He gave it a cursory glace, which was better than nothing.
Non-Einstienian deity better start changing dice soon, else the gig's up.
No time or inclination to do my practice, or argue my point, or very much at all really. Visit him this evening.
Also must try to let Glam ex exercise her guilt (or whatever) by allowing her to lend me this and that.