Moorhouse Inn
Fog. To Bradford where we collected books to take to Mum in Airedale Hosp. (She phoned this morning to say the gall bladder op is fixed for Monday or Wednesday, and we told her we'd visit this afternoon. She asked Ally to buy her a nightie, en route). We arrived at 2pm and Mum was waiting for us at a large window and stood waving down. God Bless her. She is in a tiny little room, with a colour TV, loo, and personal consultant on stand by. Poor Mum looked thinner, and bright yellow. We stayed for almost two hours chatting by the bedside. Dad joined us after about 10 minutes and he came in carrying a couple of cream cakes and the newspapers. Mum talked about the poor Bucks Fizz singer lying in a coma, and went with Samuel to look at the hospital Christmas decorations. She and Dad waved us goodbye and we drove away feeling sad. She is such a real brick about it all. To Lynn's where we argued about visiting Mum on Christmas day. They don't seem to think it's a priority. They annoyed us by talking about Pam's fancy dress party set for tonight and how drunk they will all be. _________. Dad came to Guiseley at 10 and immediately worried me by saying that the surgeon is now saying that the problem is not just gall stones and that a recent x-ray reveals 'something else'. He talked about Mildred Werrett, who was yellow before she died of cancer in 1978, and he sat giving us long and soulful looks. Oh God. Mum is seriously ill, I think. To bed late. I cried myself into oblivion. Very fearful.
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