15th March 2005 - Beware the Ides of March

“I’m dying aren’t I?” were my Dad’s first words to me today. I was still trying to wrestle Ellie out of her coat, hat and gloves when he asked me. I’m not sure what the correct answer would have been. I’m fairly sure my response was cowardly of me, unsatisfactory for him and very obviously dodging the issue. “Well, I suppose we’re all dying. You might outlive us all for all any of us know. But what makes you say that? ” Dad then started talking about earlier that day when he’d overheard someone talking about dementia – although, irony thickly plastered here, he couldn’t remember the word for it - and that there was no treatment for it. By the end of his story he’d spent so long trying to remember the words, who’d said them and the order they’d been said that he’d forgotten why he’d started it but it was obvious that he had heard someone saying that it was degenerative, incurable and eventually fatal. But his ever loving daughter sidestepped the issue entirely, giving him no comforting words, no hope, no positives to cling too, just dodge dodge dodge and wait ‘til he forgets what he’s talking about.

I left in tears. But tears that were probably for myself. I don’t know what would have been gained by answering truthfully but I know I felt I’d let him down by not being different. Sorry Dad, so sorry Dad but yes you are dying. Slowly, ebbingly, awfully.