Call One – 7:30PM Sunday:
I was only ten (virtual) minutes into a match between FC Ballstars and Celtic last night, when the call came in. After my Grandad’s latest rally, he had suffered a suspected major stroke and was moments from death. When I arrived at the home, I realised that this was likely it, he was moaning and groaning and unable to talk. I took my brother home, as there was little we could do – my Mum, Dad, Sister (relative), Sister Nolan (Nun) et al were there with him.
Call Two – 8:30PM Sunday:
My Dad phoned to say that my Grandad had been read The Last Rites and that he was as comfortable as possible.
Call Three – 11PM Sunday:
The doctor had been called and had diagnosed urine infection number three. He had prescribed some anti-biotics and paracetamol.
The next morning – 4AM Monday:
More fucking comebacks than Frank Sinatra. My Grandad is up and about like nothing ever happened! I half expected Ashton Kutcher (read Jeremy Beadle if you don’t know who Ashton is) to jump out from somewhere and tell me I’d been Punk’d. Unbelievable!