It only takes one phone call

today we were heading south on a 2 hour drive to my Dad and stepmother’s house for a surprise party for my Dad’s birthday and early Father’s day celebration.
Then my stepsister rang me.
I didn’t answer – busy feeding Grover and pretending we’d already left as hello, we were going to be LATE.
Then I heard it.
Some sort of accident.

It only takes one phone call.

I was feeling all pissy with the world as Chef had laughingly dismissed something I relayed to him from an email from a friend that was very exciting for me.

OK. Yeah. I was being a child. Sulking and surly.

BUT FAR OUT. I had stayed up late last night doing his CV AND cover letter, the least he could was pretend he was excited.

There’s already enough of it in this house surely.

It only takes one phone call.

Then I had people being all concerned and worried when, you know, last night they were questioning why I would be making a cake for my Dad for his birthday and this morning said, ‘you’re still cooking’. I don’t want to question their concern because that is just taking my ungrateful spiteful daughterness way too far but… YOU KNOW.

So there I was kinda freaking out all while maintaining the rage at Chef and the surly resignation with the matriarch.

What if he died. What if he was paralysed. What if what if what if.

So I said, ‘we are vacating the house’.
I had some poorly executed plan of driving south, through the national park and along the new crazy road that goes out over the ocean. You know, this one:
I had planned this with a backpack with nappies, wipes, five apples and two drink bottles.
Granted, there were also 36 mini quiches* (on a silver platter) and a cake** (Bec’s rotary cake, doubled, and iced with a cream cheese frosting I’d added a smidge of cinnamon to). But NO ONE was touching them.

So we get on the road. I text my SM we’re on the road and to use my mobile for any updates. She sent me a text back saying “come to the hospital”.

It turns out that my dear dad, (my relationship with whom as been a very mixed bag what with his extended mid-life crisis and the whole divorce fiasco) had firstly almost asphyxiated himself by climbing into his enclosed trailer to shovel shit. Literally. Can you imagine? Dying by asphyxiation from the fumes coming off cow manure? Then, in another moment of clearly immense clarity of thought, he stood near two big tree logs as the guy he was working with tried to manoeuvre said logs out of the way (he must have had a mini-digger or something, never quite got to the bottom of that) so they could park their trailer there.

Seriously, there I times I wonder how any form of male species survived beyond the great Ice Age.

He has a massive hematoma (don’t you love it when the bruise is so bad it gets to be called a hematoma) where he tried to stop the massive log from rolling on him as yes, in a past life he was Batfink.
But the log, as it fell off this guy’s truck, it levered on the other trunk like a massive pendulum and then collected dad.
Who believes he ‘went down like a sack of potatoes’
Until the guy driving the truck said, ‘ah, no. You ah, flew through the air about 8, 10 ft’.
Anyway, the hospital has been remarkably amazing.
He’s in over night and maybe for another one depending on more tests.
They are worried about blood clots in this day and age when everything is about the clot.
By some sheer miracle, he does not seem to have broken anything.

And that, my friends, was my day.

* which fed all the various family members and most importantly my SM during all the infernal waiting.
** which was big enough to feed at least 30 and has gone home with SM to feed all the builders and labourers working on their house at the moment as oh yes, they are also building their own home.