It's a measure of how stressful the past few weeks of sorting my dad's palliative care have been that I spent an hour looking at a page of figures today when I got home, unable to make head nor tail of it; it's like someone substituted my brain with Pollyfilla.
The kindness everyone involved in his care has shown - from friends to medical professionals - has been exceptional. My Dad has a small army of loyal mates, all in their seventies themselves (who my mum accurately described as being, "Like the cast of 'Last of the Summer Wine'") who have gone out of their way to help him. But inevitably the pressure is on my mum and me the most as we try to navigate the difficulties presented both by my dad and his illness; it's a neverending one-step-forward, two-steps-back process that it's hard to keep a handle on, and the fact my dad can be a difficult patient at the best of times makes the whole thing rawer.
In some ways, the busyness helps as it doesn't give you time to think. It's easier to tackle the smaller day-to-day challenges than to consider the bigger picture. In the moments when I take it in, I wish I could press a button marked 'reset' and be given a second chance at it. But having said that, I'm aware that there was a time almost exactly a year ago when my dad suffered a terrible brain bleed that he was never meant to recover; we were told he wouldn't make it through the night, so each day since then has been a blessed luxury.
What I wasn't prepared for - as with the response Re. my current PIP situation - was the kindness of the internet. I posted a few tweets earlier today, which were essentially this blog in truncated form, and received some lovely responses, mostly from people I've never met. One, in particular, stood out:
What you do, sir, is incredible and so many of us are very grateful for it.
The kindness everyone involved in his care has shown - from friends to medical professionals - has been exceptional. My Dad has a small army of loyal mates, all in their seventies themselves (who my mum accurately described as being, "Like the cast of 'Last of the Summer Wine'") who have gone out of their way to help him. But inevitably the pressure is on my mum and me the most as we try to navigate the difficulties presented both by my dad and his illness; it's a neverending one-step-forward, two-steps-back process that it's hard to keep a handle on, and the fact my dad can be a difficult patient at the best of times makes the whole thing rawer.
In some ways, the busyness helps as it doesn't give you time to think. It's easier to tackle the smaller day-to-day challenges than to consider the bigger picture. In the moments when I take it in, I wish I could press a button marked 'reset' and be given a second chance at it. But having said that, I'm aware that there was a time almost exactly a year ago when my dad suffered a terrible brain bleed that he was never meant to recover; we were told he wouldn't make it through the night, so each day since then has been a blessed luxury.
What I wasn't prepared for - as with the response Re. my current PIP situation - was the kindness of the internet. I posted a few tweets earlier today, which were essentially this blog in truncated form, and received some lovely responses, mostly from people I've never met. One, in particular, stood out:
"I'm just off to work my 12 hour night shift as a rapid responder to assist people living with and managing palliative care situations. The stress on families is at times colossal.
Stay strong and make time for yourself and each other."
What you do, sir, is incredible and so many of us are very grateful for it.