Dad is sleeping. Stepmama went down for the count a while ago.
Ointment rubbed into heels (bedsores).
Eyedrops and ointment inserted and patch re-applied.
Toothbrush (the evening one) and toothpaste (the building up fluoride evening one), glass of water and bowl brought. Straw, too, because he can’t suck properly. Bowl held, glass as well (too heavy).
Pills painstakingly counted outed according to his records of what should be taken at bedtime, with gentle reminders from myself. Suggestions of a Dopp Box and prior preparation quite aggressively rejected. Pills taken.
Instructions given as to when I should disturb him, how cracked the door should be and the exact angle of the torch on the nightstand, the distance of the clock from the lamp and how to position glasses in the dishwasher.
Twenty minutes of deep enjoyment as he read aloud to me from his first book, his autobiography, ‘An Element of Luck’; a reminder of what a remarkable man my father is.
A heartrending discussion of exactly what he wants for his wake.
God, I love my father.