It must be love

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I went to see my dad last week. He was nested in like a tiny bird, surrounded by pillows. He has become like a baby chick, fed intermittently, drowsing most of the time. He sings nearly constantly, drifting. Sometimes, when I sing to him, you can catch snippets coming back in quiet, meandering lines. Although at other times he sounds more like a lawn mower.

He was a nightmare, my dad. He didn't like us having opinions that were different to his. He would go catatonic when he didn't like what a cashier, or a waiter or a generally helpful person said. He'd drill us on fractions and decimals on the school run; he thought that a fun day was walking up and down a hill in the rain. He didn't talk about love. He did talk about how we had to hoover the-hall-stairs-and-landing, and get up earlier, and how we were lazy.

He was also a wonder. He made the entire cast of Morph out of plasticine and did tricks where they'd appear through the bottom of his desk. He completely stepped up when my girls were very little. He brought my first daughter to me at the school gate so I could feed her at lunchtime. He unearthed all our old toys, meticulously stored, so that they could be played with all over again.


Things went wrong in around 2013. He couldn't find the fork to eat his lunch. It was by his plate. He couldn't find the handle to get in the car. He'd have to walk round the whole vehicle at least once until he was sure. He fed pickled fennel to my youngest when she was about 18 months. He thought it was soup. 

It turned out he had a rare form of dementia - posterior cortical atrophy. It means that whilst your eyes are still working, the messages go through a blender and you can't really work out where anything is anymore. He was diagnosed in 2014 at the age of 64. That bloody song. He was so young. 

Obviously that was a long time ago now. We have been grieving for years and there isn't really anything new to report. There is a gradual loss that feels quite gentle. It is like a receding tide, with everything washing away. There is no storm, just watery sadness. 

My brother is running the London marathon this year to raise money for Alzheimer's Research UK. I wonder whether you can sponsor him, or at least give him a virtual cheer. His Just Giving Page is here. You'll find more pictures there of Dad with my brother's three girls, and some more information about what Tim is doing and why.

If you know me at all you will know I'm a total bore when it comes to running. I have run about 5 marathons over the past 6 months. I don't do it for charity because it is basically my favourite thing to do. My brother does not like it very much, it is not his favourite thing and the marathon will be the furthest he will have ever run. He is being amazing and I am very proud of him. 

My Dad didn't say 'I love you' very much. But he had - still has! - a heart of gold. It felt right to post this on Valentine's Day. It must be love. 

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Tim does many non-running things that are brilliant, often with people at the edges. His website is here. 
A book about this sort of thing that I think is helpful - The Tide









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