He's Perfect: The First Prequel

As promised, this a prequel to my post about two sick lovers. Writing this, I realised it would be far too long to fit as one post. So, instead, this is the first of a series of prequels, which will cover the time up until the beginning of my original post. To read the story in full, thus far, just go to the original post "He's Perfect". That is where I will keep a complete, chronological (story-wise) copy of the story for all those who would like to read it.


It wasn't what I expected at all. The words coming out of the doctors' mouth were terrible. But, they'd stopped penetrating my thoughts long ago. "hereditary" ran through my head. Over and over. And over. Two years ago, I'd watched my mother slowly slip away from me. Every day, the magnificent woman I knew was less and less there. It was not long before she passed away. Too quickly for the doctors to do anything about it. They cut her open, tore away the little that was left of her to try and find out what had happened. But, in the end, "We did our best. We're very sorry for your loss", was the only answer they could come up with.

Then, 2 months ago, dad slipped and fell over in the kitchen. He'd been washing the dishes, and as usual, he left a small puddle on the floor beneath the sink. This time however, when his foot slid the barest of margins, he completely lost his balance and came tumbling down to the ground. The thump when his head hit the ground was the loudest noise I have ever heard. It cut through everything, including his skull. In the short time it took for me to reach him, the pool of blood had spread rapidly. I called 000, tried to stem the bleeding and did everything I could think of to stop him from dying on me. He was all I had left. Friends had been either unable to cope with the loss of my mother or incapable of dealing with the grief my father and I now endured on a daily basis. Regardless, they didn't make contact anymore. As for family, there was none. Both my parents were only childs and their parents all died before 60. Cancer, heart failure, car accident. A series of unfortunate events, and now this, to add to the collection.

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took charge straight away. I told them what had happened and anything else that I could think of that might be in someway relevant or helpful. Otherwise, I just left them to it. I was completely out of my depth. Clinging to the edge of the pool, trying my darndest not to go under, but it was like quicksand and I was struggling more frantically than a rabbit caught in a trap...

Once they'd stabilised him, they took him to hospital. I was in the ambulance with him, but the trip is nothing more than a blur. I wasn't really there, although my body was. At the hospital, the doctors may as well have been speaking another language and in a way they were. I doubt, even at my most alert, that I would have understood even half of what they were trying to explain to me. But, even so, dad was going to be ok. I got that much. No internal damage. Superficial. Very lucky. Cracked skull. Brain function. CT. MRI. The rest simply floated around, making no connections with anything else and was certainly in no rush to do so in any case.

When he finally did wake up, it broke the spell. He was groggy, daised and confused, but it was him and that was enough. Or so I'd thought...

Over the next few weeks, after passing various mental tests and the like and satisfying the doctors that he was ready to go home, it became increasingly clear that everything was not alright. He began having memory trip ups more and more frequently, but when I told him how worried I was, he simply brushed it aside. It was perhaps a month later, when I received a call from him in a very panicky, distressed state. He'd been driving home from work, when he realised he didn't know the way. Soon, he had become lost and now he described to me, where he was. Outside a tall beige building, with large windows. About 5 storeys and 3 trees in the median strip. Opposite, was a park, with playground, walking trail and a duck pond. It was his work. He was sitting in the car, directly outside the place he had come to work five days a week, every week, for the past 15 years. And he had no idea where he was.

I called a cab, which arrived promptly, and took it to his work. He was still in his car, on the verge of tears. He reminded me of the four-year-old we had seen at the markets the other weekend. He too had been lost, tears streaming down his face, calling out for his mummy. I may not have given birth to him, but I was here and I could reassure him. The taxi driver on the hand, was something I couldn't handle. He wasn't leaving, preferring to sit there and gawk instead. I yelled at him to piss off and startled, he did just that. I drove my father back to the hospital. I took him inside and he was immediately admitted.

Test after test followed. However, eventually, they found it. The thing that had 'hereditary' stampeding my thoughts. Dad had a degenerative neurodisease. They couldn't say for sure, but in all probability, his fall had set it off. They stressed it had always been there, but now it was no longer dormant. They wanted to test me for it too. And they did. Extensively. But the results would take a while, as unlike my dad's, they didn't have 'URGENT' written all over them.

The next few days creeped agonisingly slowly along. It seemed the clock was moving in accordance with a tug of war between two snails and every now again, the one pulling it backwards would gain some ground. Otherwise it slid around the track, seemingly without actually moving, even though it was. Just.

Then, everything began to happen very quickly. Dad slipped in and out of consciousness and again, just like I had with my mother, I could see him fading away. The doctors were helpless. Even though, this time, they knew what they were fighting, the resistance they provided did barely more than a total surrender would have. Now, the disease had progressed. No longer was it simply attacking the areas of dad's brain responsible for memory, instead his whole body was now attacking itself in a desperate attempt to rid itself of the foreign intruder it had detected far too late. This part was new, and made his demise much swifter indeed. It was a mere matter of hours before the doctors said that he wouldn't survive the night. But in fact, it was little more than thirty minutes.

In an obviously draining effort, my father came to. It was for a brief period only, less than five minutes, but enough for him to share the next stage to my pain with me. "Son", he addressed me with, for the first time in my life, "You're adopted. I love you." That was all the words he could manage, before eyes wide and wet, mouth gaping- gasping- he too slipped away from me.

As soon as he came to rest in the bed and his strength left the hand that gripped me, I ran. Tears flooded my face and blurred out my vision to virtual blindness. Nevertheless, I ran, to get away from the lifeless body of who I had known only as my father and the disease that had ripped the life out of him, my mother and taken a long hard look before rejecting me. I ran as fast and as far as I could. Around this corner, down that corridor, through those doors. The unfamiliar pathway was maze-like. That is, until I saw the greeny blur of an exit sign, telling me to take one last corner. Bang! I connected with something solid, but not so solid as to be confused with a wall. It was a person. A guy. It was Him. And he ignored my absent apology. Saw my continued rushed journey and followed me...