A good day

This morning my dad was very happy to be able to sit in a wheelchair in front of the bathroom mirror and give himself a shave. Kara the nurse got us a portable oxygen tank so he could make the trek across the room without removing the tube supplying his nose.

He had insisted I bring in his travel toiletry kit - the khacki bag shown in this photo. When Kara came to wheel him to bed again he explained proudly that both the bag and the shaving brush had been his own father's during the First World War. I gave my dad a new shaving brush a few years ago but he still held on to this ragged old thing to use whenever he travelled.

My father has never been one to give up on an object until he's squeezed out all possible use.

It's so strange now to contemplate how little time he has left to squeeze out of his life.

Yesterday he had a good day. He stayed awake until dinner time and had a better appetite than he's had in a month. But it was just a temporary boost from new steroid medications. Today he's tired again, his voice is weak, and his hands are disturbingly cold. After the shave and his lunch he had to lie down. Now I'm watching him sleep. Sweet dreams my dear father.