Orange, green and yellow hats sit atop the heads of cottage residents. A scattering of nurses across the room read cracker (bon bon) jokes to individuals through the familiar melodies of Christmas carols playing on the speakers.
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In a room of people who can no longer live at home, whose minds or bodies (or both) have shifted, a scene of joy and innocence has been created. Warm nostalgia hangs in the air, not far above the realisation that this is where my Dad now fits in the world. A man who for so long had kept his independence against all odds and advice.
By 2018, signs started to appear that Dad was no longer the invincible man he had been. And within months, our family and I negotiated a caring regime that covered nocturnal and day times.
As he takes his place at a table, next to a gentleman whose body is present but his mind now gone, I look back and let go of feeling sad for my Dad - he isn't thinking outside of this room anymore. This means that as I leave, the sadness is mine to take with me.
Throughout the time I had cared for him - or maybe better fitting, "while together we had managed" - I always felt that somewhere next to me, stood my Dad. But this moment feels different. I walk out of this moment by myself.
Now over-lit by the midday sun, I continue to the car. My stomach whirrs with an overwhelming cocktail of feelings. Too much in the mix for one person in any one moment - but especially after the last few weeks. A miscarriage, a home packed into storage, the tail of a global pandemic, a TV series to be written and a diagnosis of "Carer Stress" plus more. Thank goodness for my incredible chosen family who've kept me buoyant amongst the wash.
Today though, tired as I am, the carols have dropped my guts back to Christmases when my Mum was still around - as well as other people who have long left my life. The work deadline I urgently need to get back to keeps my now-adult cells on edge and focused on the responsibilities I very much have in the present moment. And the feeling of my Dad slipping away - sometimes too quickly, other days mind-numbingly slowly - sits firmly in the middle of it all. A fulcrum point powerful enough to keep everything else in a state of limbo, beholden to its beck and call.
See, this moment is one of the easier ones.
After a broken arm, a broken rib, eight falls in six weeks, a hospital-induced pneumonia on top of multiple organ failure among other afflictions, we have made it out the other side of another hospital admission. This one scarier and more heartbreaking than any before - which is impressive. A bout of delirium had brought upon us one of the few realities we hadn't imagined - a Dad still physically here but with a worn-out mind. That had never been in his plan ... or ours. And we didn't know if we'd ever get him back.
Thankfully, we did.
What had become clear is that Dad is pretty much a cat with nine lives. I reckon it must be his karma. For all the anguish that his stubbornness has caused our own family in recent years, Dad had already spent decades helping children and families like most people never will. Before this, he had worked with people who were vulnerable within the mental health sector. And before that he had marched in opposition to injustices as a young activist - from the 1970s corridors of hospitals where electrotherapy was still being used to "treat homosexuals" to the streets in protest of the Vietnam War. Having evolved from his daughter to a fellow grown-up, I now understand that our professional and private legacies are not mutually exclusive and can exist in parallel.
We can hold multiple truths at the same time. It's all one story.
After our Mum died when I was 15, I idolised my Dad. In contrast to my brother and sister (who were older by then), I saw him as the Hero I needed him to be - in that moment and for many years after. No matter how far I ventured, an invincible thread connected me to my best friend - my Dad. As I entered adulthood, there was no one I had more respect for nor anyone I needed more. I then spent a decade begging him to change his lifestyle so my children would have a grandparent. So my awesome sister's awesome son, who I have always loved like my own, would have a *present* grandfather. Nothing changed so eventually, I thought it "mature" to respect his choices. It was the right decision, but we can only avoid outcomes for so long.
By 2018, signs started to appear that Dad was no longer the invincible man he had been. And within months, our family and I negotiated a caring regime that covered nocturnal and day times. I could go into the multiple events, traumas, joys and mundane moments that have taken place between then and now but with every moment punctuated by impermanence, they have all felt important. All felt like they were possibly our last. What I will say is that caring for someone we love is something that most of us will do - at least once - in our life span. Reading this, you most likely know that. But as someone doing this earlier than most of my contemporaries, it came as such a mystery to me - an unspoken but deeply shared experience by us all.
And when my sister and I did start to talk about our moments with Dad, many people would say "I hope he gets better". Wrong. Silently we replied, "he's not going to". Another common response was, "these are beautiful times". Correct. They are. They are viscerally real, completely consuming and hyper-saturated with emotion and togetherness (for us, this time). But they are also messy, difficult and profoundly nuanced - not just between one family and another, but from sister to sister, daughter to aunt, son-in-law and beyond. My experience of this is so bound to that of my sister's yet so different also. And that's where words fail but time spent together wins.
Between us Carers and with our Dad.
Amongst so much uncertainty, we must stay connected to what matters to us and time together wins.
