I sometimes wonder how much I should write about Dad on here.
As much as we joke and laugh about it, it does rule our life, but I never like that. I don't like the fact that no-one can leave the house now and leave him home alone and that our lives seem ruled by methadone hallucinations and medicines and diets.

So I don't try to talk about it unless I have too. But then I worry that cos I don't write or talk about how he is getting worse, that I'll come across as unfeeling or uncaring. But I don't like to talk about it, Actually I don't care about talking about it, I'll tell total strangers about how he's about to kick the bucket, or I'll just fob them off with "he's fine ta." But I can't and dislike talking about HOW I feel about it, despite everyone prodding and poking and demanding "That I just open up dammit!"

So how is Dad lately? He's bad, very bad. He spent most of the week a fortnight ago in hospital and none of us were sure if he was coming out again.
He spends a lot of time either asleep or doped up on methadone, telling me about how he "fell" out of the window in the attic.
He's lost total use of his left arm, as the tumour has pressed too much on the nerves. The thought now is to give him something that will totally kill the nerve and take away even the little use of the arm that he has.
Dad was thinking about that. But now the other arm is going. A few times now he's dropped things out of his hand because the grip has gone and he's spilt medicine and tea.
Wednesday he spilt his cup of tea on the brand-new cream carpet, which really upset him and he started to get weepy.
Thursday I had to feed him his medicine and his cup of tea and that embarrasses him as much as it does when I have to help him dress sometimes.
(We brought him a babies beaker - you know with the lids! - I don't think he was that impressed!)
The Brat especially is finding this hard, he can hardly bear to be in the same room as him or look at him. He escapes from it all by work and sleeping, but I don't have that.

He's dying now, We're no longer in denial and pretending that tomorrow he will wake up and there will be a miracle. He's dying and it depresses him and he spends a lot of time in thought or the rest of the time he's so drugged up he don't know what he's doing.
Although things carry on as normal and we laugh and joke and try and act like everythings good. But it's not.
It's a matter of trying to make the most of everything, and remembering that he was well once and was told over a year ago that at best he had nine months to go and waiting for the ineviatable really.

(Spins - Your prize will be in the post early next week sometime! I just need to get it wrapped!)