Personal Log, Stardate 63431.1

I brought my father home today after being in New Berlin for the past four days. I took an extended leave of absence from Starfleet after I received a cryptic message from my cousin Meredith that my father had taken ill.  upon my arrival, I was made to wait for several hours before being allowed to see him, only to finally be allowed access and finding him just as he always was; irascible in the extreme.  He told me it was nothing, that Meredith was simply overreacting to just a few lapses in memory, something any man his age would be experiencing. And he was right about that, at least in my opinion. My father is nearly seventy-one years old, and the occasional lapse is to be expected. Feeling a bit put out, I returned to waiting only to have a doctor tell me that there were some other outward concerns and that they wanted to keep him a while longer to run a few more tests. More tests. I know those words so well. I have used them countless times in my career, having to inform both patients and their families that a few more tests were necessary in order to "rule things out." Of course it was a stalling statement, something we doctors used when we knew something was wrong, but weren't sure what. And I could see by the expression on the doctor's face that this was the case. So, more waiting for me.


Let me tell you, pacing about the lobby of a hospital is not the best way to spend your time or make friends. I am sure there are countless people in that lobby that now hate me, the neurotic Brit that wouldn't sit down. But how could I? Even the normally calming countenance of Kathryn couldn't completely soothe the angst I felt every time those doors opened and another doctor entered or left. How I wanted to burst back there and completely take over, dominate the scene and find out what precisely was wrong with my father. I would have been well within my right to do so, as a Starfleet Doctor my authority superceedes theirs. But my father wouldn't hear of it, and I am sure that the nursing staff would have been anything but supportive had I overruled their attending physician. So I was regulated to the task of more pacing, all the while blaming myself for not taking a keener interest into my father's health.


I know it is not my fault. As he will openly admit, he is aging, though to hear him tell it you would think gracefully.  But I know how much it pains him, how much he longs to be vital once again and not constantly depending on the support of our family. Not that he was ever really a burden, but just constantly having someone look over your shoulder can make anyone feel like that. It was something none of us wanted to consider, getting older and now relying on loved ones to watch our every move. My father had always been a protector and provider, a vibrant force in our family. Whatever else he had been, whatever kind of man, he had always put his lineage above all else. That included me. Now to watch that vibrancy slip away, it was disheartening.


Finally, after two days of traipsing about the hospital, and keeping my father's hands from wandering along the hem lines of a few nurses skirts, we were given a diagnosis: Advanced Irumodic Syndrome. It explained why the testing had taken so long, as synaptic pathway degradation can be caused by a multitude of things. They wanted to be sure. And now we had it. A disease that ravaged the brain, stripping away the ability to control even the most basic function, until the person finally died of autonomic failure.  There was no cure, nothing we could do but offer the person a modicum of comfortability until they finally passed. With the diagnosis confirmed twice (once by me), I gathered my father and his things and transported him home.


So  here I sit in my father's study recording this log. He is upstairs resting, the trip from New Berlin taking more out of him than either of us realized. I thought that I would begin my own research, look at the palliative treatment for the disease and see if there was not some way to improve upon it, maybe even understand where the medical research stood at this point when it came to a cure. But I just can't bring myself to do that. I am sitting here, staring at a picture of my father and I at the last family reunion, a picture that I had forgotten about until now. I didn't even know that he kept it, but I suppose I should have. The house is a veritable collage of the family through the centuries.  But this picture stands out. It is almost proudly displayed on his desk, larger than the others that dominate its large surface. A simple photo of he and I, with "Father and Son" scrawled down one side. A telltale picture taken by my second cousin Ashland. The boy really had done an excellent job. I didn't realize he had such a talent.


Sitting here, looking at the picture of us, the various pictures of other family members, a few pictures of my mother scattered about the office, I realize just how important my family line is to my father. Don't get me wrong, I had always known, but only now sitting here where he normally sits, surrounded by these photos, do I begin to comprehend the effort and care that went into researching and cataloging all these pictures and preserving them. It took a dedication that I didn't know my father had, or maybe didn't want to believe he had.  My father. James Augustus Thrace. What else do I not know about the man? Will I have the opportunity to learn before it's too late?