the way back

Dad died last Friday in the early hours of the morning. He died peacefully. He was allowed a dignified death. His nearest and dearest were all able to spend time with him before he went. There were some undeniably beautiful moments that took place over those last days. Even though there were no visible reactions from Dad, I would like to think that some of our conversations with/about him, the music we played, the laughter and tears were able to reach him somehow. Obviously I would like to think that. Who wouldn’t? He was a beautiful dignified human being. He was owed this demonstration of love, friendship and respect. And thank Christ, he was able to leave us peacefully after being battered by Alzheimer’s for the best part of a decade. We lost him slowly and irretrievably. A cruel disease to him. A cruel disease to us. For years, he was still with us and yet he wasn’t. The long goodbye indeed. Anyway, this piece of writing is a celebration of Dad. We loved and respecte...

It’s been a whirlwind weekend. I got here yesterday afternoon. More or less straight to Dad’s hospice. He is comfortable. He is on morphine. He cannot hear my sister and me. He cannot see us – his eyes open occasionally but do not focus on anything. The nurses tell us he showed some reactions – they put some football on TV. He seemed more alert. When they washed him, he stroked the nurse’s face. But by the time we go there, he was away. Occasionally, his eyes would open, and he would start to convulse for a minute or so. But no more meaningful interaction than that. We played some of his favourite music. We talked to him. We told him we were there. We told him we loved him. We said that if he wanted to leave, no one would hold it against him. That was yesterday. Today, everything had changed. He was no longer with us at all. Sleep. Death rattle. And yet, it has been a privilege. We played a lot more of his favourite music: Frank Sinatra, Ella, Neil Young. Even Phil Collins ma...

As I type this out, I am on the Eurostar on my way to say goodbye to Dad. He is now in a palliative care hospice. It looks lovely from the photos I have seen and means there is no more pain for him to suffer. In my mind, I had grieved the passing of my dad. A while back, he stopped recognising us. For months now, and he has been fading away and spending most of his days asleep. He has not been in the distress I have seen other Alzheimer’s sufferers have to cope with: a saving grace. But, all that seemed to be left was his cage of a body. And yet, the closer I get to him, the more I am grasping that we are really going to lose him. It will be a relief in many ways: especially for him. But it will mean be a new wave of grief. I naively had persuaded myself that this would not be the case: that I was over it. I was trying to kid myself that I could take a Buddhist-style approach of accepting the situation. I do not possess that level of enlightenment or intelligence. It fucking h...

It's all very surreal. Especially from a distance. My father is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. As far as I can tell, he has been for the best part of five years.   He was a rock to me: an intelligent and wise man. Complete integrity and an impeccable sense of fairness. Alzheimer’s took away his mind. Slowly, scarily, ruthlessly. All that remains is the shell of the man I love and respect so much.   He lives in a specialised home near Paris. I live in London. He cannot communicate. We are strangers to him, albeit harmless strangers. I cannot say for sure if he still has any ability left to string ideas together or if it is all a jumble of feelings and fleeting shadows of memories. I just don’t know. The saving grace for us is that he has not been in pain or distressed.   Until now.   On Valentine’s Day he broke his leg – his femur. It took three days for him to be operated on. Three days of pain during which it would appear he was only allowed f...