Day 74: For my dad

Today is my dad's birthday. Every year he insists that he doesn't want any presents, but every year I buy him something anyway... usually a shirt or, if I feel REALLY crazy, a pair of socks. But this year I was stuck. I’m pretty sure he has enough shirts and socks to last him a lifetime and as usual I didn't get any suggestions from my dad himself. So this year I've instead chosen to write something for him and for this, daddy, I apologize; firstly for not buying you any more socks and secondly because I know, like me, you aren't good with soppy shit like this...

Ever since I was diagnosed with RA it has been mama Bull who has done most of the, well, mothering. She was the one who fed me, washed me, dressed me, and helped me go to the toilet when I was too ill to do anything for myself. She came to every one of my hospital appointments whilst I was growing up. And because of this, she understands better than anyone what I have been through, and what I am still going through. My dad, like most others, has always struggled to understand how it feels and what it is like to live with RA, whether it be why I have so little energy or why I find it so hard to unscrew a milk bottle top from time to time. And I don’t expect him to. But he has never stopped trying. There’s nothing worse than seeing your child suffer, knowing you can’t do anything to make their pain go away. Imagine having to watch your loved one cry, when you can’t even give them a hug to comfort them because it will cause them too much pain. This is the reality that my parents have had to face for the last 10 years. But they have always stayed strong. In particular my dad finds it hard to get his head around the amount of medication I have to take on a daily basis. I doubt he would even take a paracetamol if he was dying; he hates the idea of the damage the drugs could be doing to my body.

Whether he understands or not my dad has always been there for me, from carrying me up and down the stairs when I couldn’t walk to making me a drink because I don’t have the energy to walk to the fridge. And he never stops trying to understand; recently he has even started talking to me about how I feel and asking me questions about the disease. I know how hard he finds this.

So thank you, daddy, for always being there for me. Thank you for looking after me. Thank you for putting up with me being so irritable when I’m ill. And thank you for never giving up trying to understand.

Happy birthday. And I'm sorry that you are getting old.