There is an old family photo that I often think about, of my father and I at what I'm pretty sure must be Windsor Castle. I'm standing behind him on a wall with my arms around his shoulders. I must be only 5 or 6 years of age. We are both smiling at the camera - mum will have taken the shot. I don't actually remember that particular day out but the photo means something important to me.
It is 3 years since my father had a heart-attack, the second in his lifetime, triggering everything that has happened since with mum going into care, her illness taking away everything that made her who she was, and the stress and anxiety that came with it all. I still remember the morning I received that phone call from my wife telling me something was wrong, how panicked she sounded, and how I dashed out the office and made my way to my parent's house as calmly as I could. In the car, I kept saying aloud to myself I'm coming, I'm nearly there, hang in there.
The look on my mum's face when I got there will stay with me forever: one of confusion and fear, not exactly knowing what was going on and what was happening, while dad was being tended to by the paramedics. By that time, he was really struggling with mum's dementia. It was afterall only a few days before she was due a short stay in the residential home so he could get some respite. Of course, she spent 3 months there before being transferred to the nursing home where she is now.
After he left in the ambulance, I remember packing things up for mum, some clothes and toiletries, and checked the place over before taking her to ours until we figured out what happened next. It was the last time I'd see mum sat there in her spot on the sofa, closest to the window where she would look outside and see the world go by. I don't expect I'll ever overcome the pain I still have over leaving her in the residential home after that. It is truly one of the most dreadful things I've experienced.
I face doing that all over again with my dad. The difference is that he still has his marbles, while mum did not. I don't know if that's a good thing or bad.
We are in the midst of arranging a move to a nursing home, where he will see out the rest of his days. I don't really know what I'm suppose to think about that, or whether we should be doing something different, but he accepts it as something that needs to be done, and indeed it's in his best interests.
The palliative care team have really been supportive. I had no idea such services existed until this all came about: they liaise with the local council, district nurses, my dad's GP and local pharmacy, organise visits, and generally help get things done. Truly remarkable.
It's already many months since his diagnosis, and the timescales the medical team advised us of. The radiotherapy he received did help in the short term, but over the last few weeks, things have got worse. He is getting less mobile by the day; indeed I wonder whether he even manages to get out into the garden anymore. He is eating a whole lot less, and finding it increasingly difficult to do normal day to days things like washing and preparing food for himself. His clothes are baggy on his frame. He is haggard and drawn - a very tired and aged look has come over him in such a short space of time. When I speak to him, his voice is strained and he struggles for breath. He's done well to cope on his own like he has, sticking fiercely to his independence, but the time has come for him to get the care he needs in his final days.
Meanwhile, my wife and I still have a young family to raise. Our son is 3.5 years, full of energy and smiles. Our daughter, born early at 37 weeks, is now 5 months old and a healthy baby - no longer the tiny, skinny thing she was back in May. It is hard, but we manage. Having young children is difficult enough, so dealing with everything associated with dementia, cancer, social services, palliative care, power of attorney, end of life arrangements etc does not make for a merry time. But this is life: shit happens. People often tell me that they wonder how we do it, but it's not something we've ever really thought about: we don't know any different, and all you can do is get on with it.
I tell this to mum when I see her. Not that she understands. I tell her that her grandson has started at pre-school, and loves being there. How he can be cheeky and a pain in the backside a lot of the time, but bright and healthy and always singing and playing. How her grandaughter has starting teething and has been agitated, chewing on her hand or tongue and drooling a lot, not sleeping for more than an hour at a time and crying a lot, which is exhausting. But she is beautiful and she has her grandmother's eyes. I tell her about how we recently came back from holiday during our son's half-term break, where we got to spend time with my wife's friends and family back home, and where our daughter was baptised (and screamed the whole way through the service and ceremony) and that the weather was good and travelling with two young kids wasn't as bad as we had feared.
I tell her that she gave us such a scare, too. Because we had just arrived on that holiday, and were on our way out of the airport when a call came in from the nursing home, saying she was in hospital. Not exactly the best start to a holiday. After a spell in hospital and antibiotics for an infection, mum returned to the nursing home and she is doing pretty good at the moment, under the circumstances.
She remains a tough old girl, even after everything she's been through. She is at least safe, comfortable and looked after. This is what my father needs now, but I'm bracing myself for that moment he leaves his home for the last time, just like mum did three years ago.
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