Some of you will already know through social media that my father died last week following a stroke.He was 99 - a great age - and we knew that realistically he hadn't long left, but we'd expected a slower decline, with time to reconcile ourselves to the inevitable. It seems particularly cruel as he'd just recovered from a bout of norovirus which had him in hospital for a week, and although life had not been the same for him since my mum's death last autumn, he seemed to to be looking forward to things we were planning - a visit to see his baby great-grandson, a trip to where he grew up to see the conversion of a brewery into housing (he was intrigued after reading about it in the local paper). As it was, we were beaten by ill health and old age.
His death has come as much more of a shock than my mum's - her health deteriorated gradually over years; dad's overnight. At first he showed signs of a partial recovery (though I can't imagine he'd have appreciated the life left to him) but a second stroke left him without hope. A week wasn't time to come to grips with what was happening.
Fortunately I have my daughters to cheer me. My eldest brought her baby round to play. My youngest came home for the weekend, made breakfasts and dinner and cake, encouraged us to go out and see snowdrops, and we all hung out with my grandson again. I was surprised to find myself facing a new week feeling relaxed and refreshed. It isn't a feeling that's lasted long but any brief respite is good.
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