One of the most enduring memories of my childhood is the song Sixteen Tons - made famous by Tennessee Ernie Ford, covered by such musical luminaries as Johnny Cash, Eels and, more importantly for the purposes of this post, by my dad. He’d sing the song almost incessantly; as he cooked us up an Ulster fry on a Sunday, as he showered or shaved through the bathroom door, as he drove us in the car to visit our many relations.

Too young at the time to appreciate anything other than the catchy rhythm of the song and the powerful bass of my father’s voice, the bleak message of the song was entirely lost on me. The song details the existence (life would be too generous a description) of a man, who despite back-breaking manual labor, finds himself deeper in debt each day - so much so, that his own soul is owed to the company he works for.

Less than two weeks ago, I became possibly the first in my family (certainly the first in my immediate family) to circumnavigate the globe. What’s more, I did it in a Phileas Fogg-beating 30-odd days. However, there was no £20,000 reward awaiting for doing so.

Having flown home to Japan via Amsterdam and over Russia in early January after spending Christmas in Ireland with my family, I settled back into what had become the daily slog of teaching English to high-school kids in Okayama. This mundane normality prevailed only until Friday two weeks ago, for as I was preparing for work, I received a phone call from a clearly upset brother.

My dad had had an accident.

A freak accident in work had shattered my father’s cheekbone and left him needing emergency 5 hour surgery to remove a fragment of bone from his brain. With help from my brother and cousin, I was booked onto the next flight home, what was to be a seemingly never-ending 33 hour journey via San Fransisco. However, the journey was made immeasurably more bearable as news reached me before I boarded the plane that my father was out of the surgical procedure.

It’s been more than ten days since I received that phone call from my brother. At once, those days seem both an eternity and an instant. Sometime in the midst of last week, my maternal grandmother passed away - delivering yet another blow and also a welcome distraction to my family.

Though still in intensive care and as yet unable to speak or communicate with us, my father seems to, superficially at least, be on the road to recovery. Progress is necessarily but frustratingly slow. The various drips, monitors, ventilators, bandages and tubes are slowly disappearing, and my dad is slowly emerging from the heavily sedated, swollen and bloodied figure I saw before me two Saturdays ago. The extent of his recovery is still unknown, and may not be clear for some time yet.

Needless to say, I hope he makes a good recovery. We all miss him terribly. I want my little brother to look back on a childhood punctuated by our dad’s singing. I want my sister to be walked down the aisle by our dad. I want my dad to warm my mother’s feet in bed, like he used to do, and complain about it, like he used to do. I want to share a pint with my dad and my older brothers.

More than anything, I want my dad to enjoy life - to stop and smell the roses, not end up like the character of a favourite song.