Every Friday night I travel from London by car with my boyfriend to my dad's place in Devon, down narrow country roads, to care for him until Monday night.
My oldest brother arrives Monday night to take over dads care. He also travels from London. He takes me to the station so I can go home, back to work and try to recuperate for the few days I have off.
Simon my younger brother travels down on Wednesday night and takes over from Matthew, Matthew gets the train back to London to enjoy some time with his family, he has a wife and a 3 year old son. When I arrive Simon travels back to London to spend the rest of the week with his wife and two children.
I'm lucky to have two siblings and together we can give my dad all the love and support he needs.
Every week the first night and Saturday go fine, I fuss, I pamper, I do everything I can to make my dads life more comfortable. I hug him and cuddle him and try and tempt him with food that he doesn't feel like eating. I read between the lines because he won't always tell me when he's in pain. I buy bigger slippers for his swollen feet, big soft socks that don't cut his circulation off. Clothing that he can be comfortable in.
He never moans or complains about dying or being in pain.
We're in a routine, I know it well, I can do it, it doesn't feel hard. I feels like the most natural thing to do, I can't imagine not doing this. But Sundays are hard. By Sunday thoughts of his imminent death start to seep in, music always prods my emotions, tears come, I can't block it out anymore. He is slipping away, every day I know he has a little less energy and there is nothing I can do to stop him slipping.
Every time he refuses my offer of lunch, or he can't even drink his complan I panic a little inside. Feeding my dad is a familiar, feeding my dad so he doesn't die is something I've done many times before. First of all as a child.
