A note from Sarah: "Just two weeks after writing here about my lovely father-in-law, Trevor, on his 87th birthday, he passed away. Today I hand you over to Andy to pay tribute to an irreplaceable gentleman, the Good Doctor."
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My Dad died last week, and Sarah, respectfully, has not mentioned it in this blog. She wanted to dedicate a post to Dad, but I asked if I could write today's page with my own thoughts before she did so. I can't articulate why.
Dad's death was not entirely a shock - he had been suffering from Alzheimer's for around eight years, and there had been plenty of ups and downs: many urgent calls to the doctor, and many visits from the ambulance at all times of the day and night.
After a spell in hospital, he moved to a care home in March, and on April 3 celebrated his 87th birthday there. The care home was in lockdown, but he was pictured on Facebook blowing out candles, seemingly happy and looking well.
Less than three weeks later, Mum received a call to say his condition had worsened and that he was in bed and had become unresponsive. On April 23, he died in his sleep.
Mum visited him the day before he died, PPE-d to the nines and not encountering another soul apart from the nurse who took her to his room. She spent 20 minutes with him, talking, and holding his hand while he slept. I had asked her to mention me, Sarah and the children; no particular message, we just wanted him to know that we were thinking of him. He became agitated at one point, which she took as a good sign - his recognition that she was there at his bedside. She left, and he died 24 hours later. It's a cliche, but we like to believe he waited for her.
The care home, understandably, tried to dissuade her from visiting and in some ways its relenting was both brave and compassionate: in the current climate, nursing homes don't win prizes for risk-taking, whatever precautions are taken. Mum has since berated herself for visiting Dad, through fear of having been exposed to COVID-19. There was no evidence of the virus at the care home, and every precaution was taken, but she continues to self-isolate and is not keen for the family to visit, even at a distance.
In time, I think she will come to value having had the opportunity to be with him before he died. But for now, frustration rules the day and she has had to largely grieve alone, apart from time spent with the good friends who have sat with her in the unusual April sunshine, sharing a glass of wine and their memories of Dad.
For me, much of the past week has been spent simply continuing the daily routine of lockdown - entertaining, schooling, and shouting at the children, taking exercise, doing endless washing up. It hasn't been difficult to relate the facts of Dad's death, but I do choke-up when thanking others for their kindness, or on hearing what Dad meant to them.
I spoke to the care home manager and thanked her for looking after Dad; told her how much it had meant to Mum to be allowed to visit. She said he was a lovely man. I found it difficult to respond. Sympathy cards describing what Dad meant to the sender also bring a tear, as did detailing, in his death announcement, the family he had left behind.
For the children, the news came as just another part of just another day. The breeziness with which they received my solemnity made me smile. They loved Grandad, but they don't get death. I have already enjoyed keeping his memory alive with them, telling Henry about Dad's gift for chemistry and prompting the question 'was he the best scientist in the world?'.
For me, I realise my own sadness relates to memories of a different time - the endless hours spent with Dad on the golf course; his love of hosting a party (even though Mum did all the work); finding something so funny he would have to take off his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes with a well-worn handkerchief.
But the person in those memories died years ago. My recent memories are those of a disorientated, scared, elderly man, who with the passing months recognised less and less of his friends and family until Mum was the only person who could provide him comfort.
Alzheimer's slowly robbed Dad of his intelligence, his hobbies, his fitness, his ability to read, speak, eat. His dignity. Every so often, it threw-up a glimmer of hope to his loved ones - a face recognised; a sporting memory. But those were just a brief distraction from the steady decline.
A few years ago, a relative told me how his condition would progress, as if every stage was predetermined. At the time, I thought it a brutally clinical and hope-less conversation. But in fact, she was brutally correct; Alzheimer's pulls no punches.
Dad's death has also revealed to me the darker side of lockdown, the suffering that must be going on in households the world over. Mum is still self-isolating. She has asked the family not to visit imminently. Her worries that she may have contracted the virus from the care home mean she is still steadfastly adhering to government guidance. It's admirable, but also a worry: in normal times, few people are forced to grieve without close personal contact from loved ones. In the current environment, it is commonplace.
I thought that Dad's death might make me more tolerant with the children, but that's not been the case. Only yesterday I shouted at Henry for kicking a wooden garden post that had been recently set in concrete - he's reached the age where wanton destruction relieves boredom, so it's unfortunate that boredom and lockdown are bedfellows.
But the progression of Dad's disease has made me realise the importance of family units remaining close - both physically and emotionally. In recent times, I have bored friends and colleagues about ensuring they have a plan for their parents. Mum cared for Dad single-handedly for most of the eight years he had Alzheimer's, and the strain was starting to show. After all, what 70-year-old lady should be devising methods to get her husband up the stairs in such a way as to avoid being crushed if he were to lose his footing? I would have liked to have had them closer, but by that point it was too late for them to move from Tamworth in the Midlands.
A few years ago I bought a book by AA Gill in which a chapter was dedicated to his father's struggle with Alzheimer's. I skipped that part at the time as I knew his writing would reveal the future, but I think it's now time for it to come off the shelf.
In closing, and as I have been given free license by Sarah to write what I like in this post, could you all please encourage her to keep up the blogging. She's a passionate and talented writer, and needs to find further outlets for her literary bent!
Lovely Blog Andy, I'm sure your father would approve of your writings - Seems like Sarah isn't the only writer in the family.