Exactly two weeks after I had my operation, my father had an operation of his own to address some sort of a hernia problem in his stomach.
There's plenty of room for humor in describing our situation. The obvious would be to say something stupid like "like son like father"; and then there's the sarcasm of the fact the first operation cancelled the trip in which scheduled time my father ended up having his operation.
While both of our operations were on the simpler side of things, as operations go, there is a significant difference between mine and my father's: My father is 75. At that age, even sneezing is serious. So while I'm having all sorts of weird issues with the rehabilitation, I suspect my father is going to have much worse. At least he's quite fit for his age (who knows, with my level of fitness, he's probably fitter than me).
The really funny thing about his operation's story has to do with the fact that they are currently building an elevator shaft at my parents' apartment building in Israel. They just started, and the first thing they do is knock down all the stairways and rebuild them in a congested version to clear space for the shaft.
As a result, when my father came back from the hospital with a taxi, he couldn't go up to his apartment; on the other side, my mother couldn't leave the apartment in order to come down and help him. She ended up throwing him the key to my sister's place, and he ended up walking there. It's not far - just a 15 minute walk or so - but it's not something one should do a day after surgery. I don't think I would have been able to do it a day after mine; I definitely don't think a 75 year old should have done that.
Anyway, that was an example of the woes of living in Australia when the family is in the other side of the world. You just can't be there with them when they need you, and they can't be here for you. And that's a shame.