This is what happens when you try to write a blog about the weekend, from the worried 8am start in work on Friday to the getting home on Sunday, shattered, full of Supermacs and residual anxiety.
Everything comes back jumbled.
From walking down the hospital corridor and the alcoholic hand gunk, to the old men wheezing on their backs. A hotel mattress so soft that we couldn't help but meet in its middle, and tiny squabbles that never turned septic.
From my Dad's finest Brendan O'Connor impersonation, to the fact that he needed a shave, a hug, a kiss and some fresh pyjamas.
From my colleague, my friend in work, who took on my shift at a moment's notice and offered me one of his in return, when he didn't have to. A man who fakes his own parsimony.
The roundabouts, the incessant roundabouts between Castletroy and the Regional, and her willingness to go wherever I needed, whenever I needed, giving me whatever it was that I could use of hers.
The hotel bar that we were too tired to drink in and the chronic sameness of the towel racks on the wall.
The mushroom soup from Avoca, for my Mam, so she wouldn't have a packet of Tayto for her lunch again, and my Dad telling me about the man that recognised him in the hospital corridor, the man that went to school with him in Vincent's and hadn't seen him since 1965.
The Chinese takeaway eaten hungrily and the absence of any drink at all, talk of who'd been in to see him and how Ger had hurt her eye.
A clicker going click every time the words 'I'm fine' were uttered and nobody falling for any of that craic.
The distraction of American guests and handed out toffee cake, hoovered out rooms and dusted down shelves, eyes giving people away, and kisses on the head for each of my family.