Each day pain is etched more on his face. Moving now hurts. He lies across the bed at odd angles, fallen, crumpled and says it's more comfortable than moving. Silence takes over more of the day. He sleeps. And sleeps. Tomorrow he will go into the hospice. To control the pain, they say. A week or so, they say. I'm terrified he will never come home. Mum went into hospital for a week and died there 4 weeks later. He is giving up. Yet still has time for kind words and to hold my hand and tell me that what is most important to him is that I am happy. Rubbing lotion on his tired back, each vertebrate stands out beneath his freckle flecked skin. His arms have become so frail and thin, all bone and no flesh. I took my brother to spend an hour by his bedside tonight, an hour we could spend as a family. They said goodnight and dad held his hand for a long time. His eyes look so scared. Their blue now edged with a look of bewilderment. He told me that I had awoken him from a lovely dream this afternoon. He dreamed that he was cured.
1. On saturday a wonderful friend premiers her film and many friends will gather to celebrate and I will be one such friend.
2. I basked in the sun for hours today reading in the glory of flowers my father has created in the garden.
3. Next week my friend and wonderful godchildren will be home for a week to meet for walks and cake.
4. I have to find away to tell my brother that dad is dying and he will have to say goodbye soon.
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