Happy Fathers Day

My parents are on holiday for a month. They flew into Thailand, and intended (after careful consideration and consultation with expats in Australia) to travel to Burma. Last I heard they were on the road to Mandalay with a car and driver, and having a wonderful time.

I sent Dad an email this morning, wishing him a happy Fathers Day. At lunchtime, I was talking to a customer when my brother interrupted me to tell me that Dad was on the phone.

“Happy Fathers Day”, I shrieked into the phone, to be met with a shocked silence. “He didn’t tell you then”, Dad said…

Mum had left the car to take a picture (with her snazzy new camera) of another bloody temple. Since it was raining, Dad gallantly got out of the car to hold an umbrella over her (and her new camera). She took the picture and got back into the car. Dad walked around to the other side of the car and slipped on the wet road, and broke his ankle – both bones.

They were flown to Thailand yesterday, and it has been deternmined that when the swelling goes down, he will need an operation to put pins in his bones to help them mend. He’ll have to stay in Thailand for a few weeks healing before he can fly home.

Travel insurance is paying for everything, Mum has a bench in his room to sleep on, the nurses are very pretty, and he was given a single rose with his breakfast. The hospital has a reputation for being a leading destiantion for “medical tourism”.

All well and good. Until I did a wee google serach and found this link.

I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said that I love my Dad. That anything happening to him disturbs my happiness and sense of wellbeing. Add to that my memories of my grandfathers death when he and my grandmother were in Broome on holiday, and I have a paranoid fear that something terrible will happen while I am miles away.

I’m sure everything will be fine, but I’ll be sleeping with my passport under my pillow tonight.