This morning was spent sitting by my dad's bed and holding his hand and watching him sleep, along with trying to light a fire under the girl from "discharge placement"'s arse to find a room in a nursing home for him. As much as I hate to see him go to a nursing home, it has to be better than being locked away in a tiny hospital room, door kept closed in an attempt to keep the noise of the other patients [and the smells] at bay. And then this afternoon I started packing up my Pop's apartment. How cut and dried those words seem, but how to describe how I felt as I was going through the things that were important to him and trying to decide what to keep and what is rubbish? How to explain that I felt like a voyeur as I sifted through pictures and papers, wondering at his reasons for keeping some of the things he has.
As Pop said this morning, this whole dying thing sucks.