take care

I was supposed to go home three days ago. Still not sure when I should go home now. My father has been doing much better. My sister doesn't want to give me the credit, but that isn't the point in itself. If I've been helping, that changes what it means to leave. From my perspective, I seem to be making a substantial difference. I'm afraid to leave.

Some of it is cyclical; he may be doing better this week and worse next. Getting him to eat and drink isn't easy. He doesn't know what he wants. We have to be pushy about it, while offering something he might be able to eat. It can't be the same thing too often. It's a challenge. My sister doesn't have the time for it all day long the way I've been doing. Frankly, I might have more of a knack for it, too.

Since I got here, he went from refusing to eat anything, to eating small amounts five or six times a day. He was drinking a lot of grapfruit juice too, but now he won't drink much of anything. So it's an ongoing challenge, but I think his health has improved largely because he started eating again. I've been able to help him get around, so he doesn't fall. I'm terrified of him injuring himself, without me here. It's no small thing that my presence seems to help psychologically, too.

For now, I'm taking it one day at a time. Every moment feels so precious, better spent sitting here with my father than doing anything else. When I'm home, the days bleed together, weeks and months go by so easily. I let almost six months go by, before I could even get here. Now, six months is a lifetime and then some. I'm afraid to miss a single day. I don't understand how I'm supposed to just leave.