My Uncle is very ill. We had been told of his diagnosis, but thought when the surgery went really well it may buy some more time. I rang today from Mum's as we have always been close. It is not good. Always before, when we talked he and I would be on the phone for at least half an hour before he handed the phone to my Aunt. My Mum always jokes about it because if she rings, she's lucky to get two sentences before he hands over. Today it was I who only received the two sentences.
I have always been his favourite. He is my father's younger brother, and the one most like my darling deceased Dad. He was raised in a harsh, hard-working unaffectionate, farming family, where emotions were never shown. Like my Dad he didn't like physical displays, so it became a running joke when I, as a toddler, attached myself like a limpet to his leg if he refused to pick me up for a cuddle.
Since Dad died, he often comments on how he loves talking to me because I was just like the old bugger. A straight talker. Even today when I asked how he was he replied "Waiting." "In the waiting room hey - waiting for the old bugger to come get you?" He laughed his deep, croaky bark.
We haven't been home for over a year, and thank God, we had organised to go in a fortnight. I told him he better bloody wait for me, or else I'd be putting in a bad word with the old bugger. And yes, he knows I'm mad enough to still have lengthy converations with my Dad. And to believe he hears me.
Hang on Uncle Darleigh, Dad's Boy is coming home.
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