Letters to my son

Dear Ódhran,

It's 8am, peaceful. I can see the sun shining through the bay window. The second sunny day in a row. A novelty in Ireland, though it's questionable it'll last. The rumbling and rhythmical puff of my oxygen concentrator can be heard from the kitchen. There's hissing in my nostrils. It blows cold but not uncomfortable. Not at this level.

You don't know much about what's going on but you know I have to wear these tubes and you know I'm a "little bit sick". In 6 months I'll be listed for a double lung transplant. I've pulmonary lung fibrosis, the cause of which has baffled doctors. It's auto-immune but unspecified. A cloud of symptoms, unable to pin down.

My future is uncertain. Should the worst case scenario present itself these letters will be here. I'd like you to know who your father was. I'd like to be able to offer you advice, to support you and most importantly I'd like you to know that I loved you, love you and will always love you.

Dad