Following on from my last postcard, I’m spending even more time around the bed. Today I moved my Father out of his place, a decision taken quickly and consequently, leaving none of us time to dwell on the enormity of the move. His last night in his own place was a little too adventurous; a fall, several hours on the floor, numerous phone calls made to strangers and unfortunately, not one of them connecting with me. In his confusion trying to get me he finally said to one woman, ‘please help,’ and she suggested dialing emergency services. Seven firemen, two RCMP’s, one wall with a substantial hole, one abused door and lock later, and my Father was back in bed. He agreed, it was time to move in with me.
It’s only now as I’ve settled him in for the night that it’s hit me - that’s the last time he’ll live alone, move freely through his home and life by whim or intention, the last. It would be easy to focus only on finality, dying tends to affect us in this way. So many lasts it’s true, but some firsts too. Today was the first time he needed help to sit up in bed, to get a drink, the first time I’ve seen my Father completely helpless. Tonight I’m in a different bed too, a single one camped outside his room. These last weeks are also the first time I’ve been able to give him something of significance for the love, experience and upbringing he gave me. So, endings but beginnings too which is what life is all about.