A phonecall.
I make my first tentative steps up the clean stairs, smelling disinfectant and the rubbery smell of immobile skin. The door opens to the second floor and the foyer is bewilderingly busy, the metronome march of nurses in blue overalls and the warm smile of the doctor in her white.

I'm swept towards the ICU, towards a beige metal door, past the smells of chemicals, plastic and sanitising gel. I see Nick, unexpectedly, so, unprepared, I forget to say hello and smile wanly instead. He seems to understand and nods me through the door.

The tubes snake around his greyed limbs and peirce his wrists, wires and clips hang haphazardly and my eyes are swept to the screen. The screen which I've been conditioned from too much TV to depict the beat dwindling to a horizontal and cry a mournful tone.

My father looks like a cyborg medusa. The wires and tubes writhe as they inject him with blood thinners and heart regulating fluids. The machine obediently blinks his arrhythmic beat and stubbornly refuses to show a reduction in pressure. I forget I'm here to see him, my face is purely blank and businesslike as I hand him his paper, his toothbrush, his deodorant, his snacks, his blackberry. My heart is heavy with the memory of being his little rabbit and him carrying me on his shoulders, I don't want to be the strong one.

His faced is still an angry landscape of purples and yellows. The black stiches along his eyebrow giving him a roguish lopsidedness. He still smiles and tries to charm the female doctor. She smiles warmly and then a flash of worry on her face when she notes the twinkling blood pressure. Neon lights advertising old age and decreptitude.

I hold his hand. Conditioned by the televised spectacle of care. It's what you're supposed to do, right? I smile and offer to play cards. Everyone stands around looking at me worriedly. I feel numbed by the gloomy expectation. He picks up on the vibe, and once everyone has gone, he insists I commit all the codes, passwords and bank jargon to memory. Initially I refuse but his whisper of "just in case" won't leave my mind.

My father. Passing on the keys to his kingdom. But I am still not grown, i still need him strong.