My dad

When dad is distressed and so upset with dementia and grabs my hands when I visit and needs me so much there is a part of me that thinks “I never want to come back and see this, I want to walk out of here and never see this again”

His bewildered face, his faltering words, his terrified eyes as the dementia slowly erodes the cognitive thinking, is so soul destroying I want to run through the care home screaming at everyone to come and fix him.

Then when he holds me tight and tells me he is petrified of the thoughts in his head I reassure him. I hold it together.

I walk out of his room holding the tsunami of grief and the wee woman who thinks am her sister hugs me and whispers “Am scared”. I tell her “Am scared too” and she sits down.

Then I walk the 66 steps back to my house weeping so hard I make people stare at me in the street.

I stand an stare into the pawn shop window to cry. I know the price of every watch and ring in their window. I don’t want Ash and husband seeing me like this. But they do, they know. They know what’s happening, they can see the crushing pain.

My poor daughter is traumatised seeing her beloved grandad crumble. I put her through this as well as all the family who visit. I hate seeing what it does to her, he helped raise her when we worked in pubs and comedy.

Do I have to go back there every day and see my dad slowly defrost into a puddle of nothingness?

What kind of cuntish hell is this?

The answer is yes. I do have to back and see it because I love my dad and am lucky to have him.

The horrific pain of tears held back is like stone in my throat.

The care home staff are amazing.

Life sucks.

I want my daddy back.

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