7th and 8th October - St Matthew's Passion

We've been sitting with him, either me or Moira, or both of us, for days now. We'd both tried different classical pieces to listen to. And we both kept coming back to a CD of highlights from Bach's St Matthew's Passion. It's lovely. It's calming. It swarms over you, it massages you, it's just so beautiful. Different parts of it evoke differing emotions, but it's not maudline, it's not bathetic. I think it's perfect for his funeral, and so does Moira, but we both feel guilty for saying that before he's 'gone', talking over him. It's surreal. It's the blackest of humour we're having between us, Moira and I. As soon as we laugh, we feel guilty. As soon as either one of us has to eat or pee or sleep we feel guilty, or disrespectful, or unworthy. One of us will go out for breakfast and bring it back. I'll go and see the kids for a short time. One of us will bring back some lunch. We'll sit. One of us will go for something for tea - or dinner - and clink back shamefully with individual bottles of wine and cans of gin and tonic. The staff keep asking if we want tea, coffee, soup, sandwiches, anything at all. They are so good. They come and move him every 3 hours. He's on an air mattress to avoid any sores, but he's so frail and thin that I can't imagine he'd have enough weight to make a sore. But the staff are so lovely, so kind, so respectful.

Moira had a bad spell when I was away seeing the kids. It was weird, because I was supposed to come back at 7 in the evening, after I'd fed the family, but I started back at 5, and got stuck in traffic. She called me, very upset, but I was already on my way, I knew that she'd need me to come back quicker.

There's a guest room at the home and Moira's been staying there, when she's not with Dad. It's like a very impersonal hotel room. Like somewhere Alan Partridge might have stayed in - in Norwich. It doesn't matter though. It's there, we use it when we need to get a few minutes sleep. The staff have made an effort to make it 'homey'. Towels, a hairdryer, tea and coffee, shampoos, shower gels. The people that work at the home are great.

I honestly - although I have complained about individuals in the past - think that a good care worker is one of the most undervalued people in the world. Whether that is one who works in a care home or one who cares and works in their own home for their loved one.

I'm all disjointed. All over the place. Lack of sleep.

He's so pathetic now. I remember years ago when I first visited the home, thinking that some of the residents looked like holocaust victims. Dad looks like that now. His face is sunken, his skin has so little flesh below it. I can hold his hand now. I can stroke his hair. I can kiss his cheek and touch his face. I didn't do that when he was more aware. He and I weren't able to be 'touchy feely'. Our barriers didn't allow it. We don't have barriers now. There's none left. I've changed his incontinence pad in his old age, like he may have changed my nappy in my childhood. Full circle.

Sorry - all over the place. Very tired. Not sleepy but tired.