Two weeks and no real improvement for Dad. The way the family has come together reminds me of how much I’ve got to be grateful for. Every time I feel a twang of sadness for Dad I remember to what extent the family is what it is because of him, and I can’t help but feel blessed. He knows us; he’s mostly very lucid, although not often awake for more than 20-30 seconds at a time. We have some amazing conversations (mostly monologues, with some very pertinent comments thrown in on his part, but it’s a struggle). Sometimes he seems aware of where he is and what’s happened, and other times not. It might be the stroke; I suspect a lot of it is the morphine.
I sat with him for a few hours after Mum left this evening. I know she wants me to sit on his left side, to stimulate that and help him remember it exists. But tonight I just wanted him to know I was there, to let him feel me holding his hand, so I moved the chair around to the right side of his bed. He wanted his false teeth in, so I did that for him; I’ve got the hang of it now. We talked about him needing to be able to hold them up so the nurses wouldn’t be worried about him choking on them, and about him needing to remember a swallow reflex so the feeding tube could come out and he could start eating. He did some practice swallows, but it was hard. We watched some tele together – Richmond was playing (and winning). He tried hard to be interested, especially when they kicked a goal. The morphine was wearing off and he was more awake, for about half an hour. But he was also more aware and mostly just seemed sad.
When the nurse came round to inject the antibiotics into his drip he looked askance at me, and I explained that she was giving him antibiotics for the pneumonia. He looked away; his eyes were red and watering and his hand shook. His back was hurting, so I sat rubbing it for a few hours with one hand while he held the other one. When visiting hours were over I stayed a little longer, then when I went to leave he gave my hand a squeeze. When I leant in to kiss him goodbye, his eyes were again becoming teary and he said ‘Thank you for everything’. I was a bit stunned; after everything he’s done for me and my children; after everything he’s been for me throughout my life, everything he’s forgiven me for, he was thanking me. Maybe I should have told him that; maybe I should have let him know that he’d been everything anyone could ever want a father to be and then so much more. Let him know that no thank you from me could ever be enough. What came out was ‘I love you Dad, I’d do anything for you.’
As I walked to the lifts I couldn’t help feeling that we’d said goodbye.
