My dad died last weekend. He'd had cancer twice before (2012 and 2015) and he beat it both times. It came back for a third try in the summer and while he'd kicked its arse back then, the third time was not the charm. All I can is it was quick. My brother and I were with him for an appointment with his oncologist on the Thursday to talk about chemo; he was in hospital Friday morning and I saw him Saturday afternoon. He wasn't with it until just before I left when he knew me. He came back to us on Sunday and then went in the evening.
Fast and quick and a fucking abomination. I tweeted about it on Monday which went as close to viral as I have ever been (or probably will be in all fairness) - support from online friends and strangers who have no reason to give a shit about my life other than the thing that connects us from country to country, faith or none.
Human decency. My dad was a piss-taker and he had little time for bullshitters. What he did have time for was good people. People who help and care. He didn't make a song and dance about much of anything; he just knew what mattered. And he knew it was being decent. If he'd known my little tweet would spread that far and wide, he'd have been chuffed. A small thing but enough.
As you can imagine, things are not great right now. The job hunt (for my wife as well), money and this. Just about all the shit has come at once. Part of my fight back against it is to keep writing. I've been working on the third draft of a difficult book for a little while and am pushing towards the end. I can already see this section of it will need more work than everything before it but I'm still putting the words down. My dad liked my books, so I figure the best thing to do is tell more stories.
And hope for better days.