Sawdust Confetti

 I still don’t really know what to say, but I wanted to express my gratitude.

Many weeks ago, I pulled up at grandad’s like I do every day, dressed for the gym, his dinner in my hand. I opened the front door and I could hear him moaning away but this is not unusual so I shouted, “What you doing man!?”. By the time he replied I was inside the second door, so I could hear the shrill terror in his voice.

“Charlie? Don’t let the dog in chuck! Charlie I’ve fell.” My stomach constricted all the way up to my throat. He was in his bedroom and the door was shut.

“Ok granda, don’t worry, I’m going to open the door is that ok?” I forced my voice to be as level as possible but it was definitely a few decibels higher than usual.

“Yes, yes pet,” he cried, and I held my breath and opened the door.

His head was bleeding, but not badly. I scanned his body in half a second and knelt beside him where he lay. “It’s ok sweetheart, you’re ok.”

“I’ve broke my leg, I’ve been crying Charlie, I’ve been here for hours," he panted.

“Ok, I’m here now, you’re ok.” I looked up at my mum who had just now followed me into the house. My body was shrouding him, comforting him but my eyes were screaming the emotion I couldn’t let out.

As grandad was taken into the back of an ambulance and away from our Ashbury Drive, I was told not to worry. Lots of people recover from a broken hip. You’ll see him in the next few days. I didn’t believe them. I don’t really know why; I just had a bad feeling about it all. Whirring around in my mind was Grandad’s dementia can’t take another stay in hospital.

They operated on his hip and it went well, but after his operation, something even worse happened and his vitals dropped dangerously low. I had phoned the hospital just to speak to him, to see how he was doing after his op, and they told me he was extremely poorly. I hung the phone up. I found myself driving to Weston General as if in the throes of a nightmare, then the next thing I knew I was running through the halls, flooding the corridors with my pain and panic, bursting through the doors of the ward as if his life depended on it. “Where is my grandad?” I managed. The nurse read my aura in an instant.

“You’re Charlie”. A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

I will cut that night out of the story because it was the worst of my life. That night, the doctor told me my grandad might not make it. I vomited the three mouthfuls of tea I managed. I lay awake til the morning. My heart didn’t stop choking me until they told me at 10am that he was alive.

It’s been a month since that day. I haven’t seen his gorgeous face or heard his naughty laugh for weeks. My heart isn’t panicking anymore but it aches from missing him. Yesterday we found out that he will be moved to respite care in the next few days, about half an hour’s drive away. I couldn’t care. I’d drive to Europe right now to hold his hand.

This sad affair is the reason why I have leaned on some of my loved ones and hid away from others... But I just want to thank every single one of you.

Those of you who’ve messaged with nothing but love and got nothing but silence from me. Those of you who have had me turn up at your door hyperventilating (Dan and Britt, I love you both more than you know). The members of this family I never thought I’d speak to again who have supported me. I’m touched to the point of tears most days. My best friend has been missing for a little while, but you know, in many ways I’ve never felt so loved. Thank you for seeing me, and, fuck, thank you for loving him with me.