GRAVEL EYES he writes in capital letters on a reporters notepad that the nurse has brought him at our request. Already open, the pages have been rolled over the spiral binding of the pad. He writes with a blue biro the nurse has given him.
'Two grown up men I've asked about this,' says Dad, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 'Two different doctors who've been around here every day.'
The nurse is German, calls everyone love, makes surprisingly funny jokes. She's jovial, anyway. Competent too.
I've been using Dad's eyes as a marker, a gauge of how well or sick he's feeling. Today they look gray. The last couple of visits he has seemed chipper, as if there's a lifeforce in him that's new. Gravel eyes, he says. Hardy, made of stone.
