The cruelty of short-term memory loss is that each time you ask where she is, you get the fresh shock and grief of the news. That was Dad's day yesterday.
Comfortingly, it seems to be less so today. Last night he looked crumpled, today he seems more settled. There's a card he picks up and reads every few minutes, sent from her friends in her prayer group, sending their sympathy and love. It’s written with that natural assumption that the reader will know what they're talking about. The fact that he’s discerning the meaning is a reminder that the acuity is still there. From time to time, he asks when’s the funeral? Memory seems to work for him like snowflakes hitting a window, mostly melting, but when they come often enough, beginning to gather and set.
We’re getting ready for a funeral on Monday, we’re shocked and tired. And thank you so, so, much for all your kind messages. We're working our way through grief, coming to terms. I’ve already caught myself thinking Mum will love to hear this then realising Oh, can't tell her. Can’t ever tell her again.
