A couple of days later my brother and I came home, but we didn't visit our dad again for a while. He was too sick.

Mum spent days and days trailing from the hospital and back.

It was miles away and mum hated driving, hated going somewhere she didn't know and hated being lost. One day she got lost coming home and she was so panicy and scared. She rang my aunt to come get her, and she found her way home eventually, but I think that moment really scared my mum, like she realised she might never have my dad helping her to get places ever again.

After weeks my dad started to improve, slowly get better.

Eventually, we were allowed to see him again.


The hospital was even worse than it was the first time, scarier, darker, lonlier. When we were nearing my dad's bed I got scared, what if he was bad again? What if he wasn't really my dad at all?

As we turned the corner, there he was.

He was fine.

He recognised us.

He smiled at us.

Relief flooded me and I finally felt some hope, and joy.

Dad talked to us the whole visit, he was almost like his old self. He told us about all the friends he'd made, and how useless all the doctors were.

I felt elated. My dad was going to be fine.



I think my mum could see how hopeful me and Matt were, so that' when she decided to tell us. We needed to know.

They couldn't remove all the tumour, I already knew that. But it was really embedded in his brain, and it was unlikely the radiation or chemo therapy would work. Buy him a bit longer, maybe. But not make The Cancer go away.

It would always be there.

He was unlikely to live much past Christmas.

That was 3 months.

3 months.


The End

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