My Dad died a couple of weeks back. It was pretty sudden. He never really looked after his health and was a dedicated smoker right up to the end. The day it happened was pretty normal - if one can call it that - he had his usual breakfast of coffee and muffins and then at lunch a small plate of cheeses and meats with tomatoes and chutney. It seemed pretty much business as usual. I had to do a bit of work in the afternoon and was late getting home. I stopped by a local gastropub and picked up a full Irish breakfast for my Mother and went to serve that along with my Dad's usual "meals on wheels" dinner. He said he wasn't hungry and didn't want any but I persuaded him to eat at least the dessert and maybe a banana all followed by the usual coffee. Things looked happy and were pretty settled when I left the house to get my meal, do some shopping and have a sneaky pint. An hour later my Mother called and told me that he had collapsed. By the time I got to the hospital he was gone. I'm kind of glad I didn't see him go.

This stuff is pretty hard to write about. When you are just "writing" it seems like that there is nothing one can say. I may have to give this a few weeks to settle down. My Mother is angry with all of it - as am I - but her anger sometimes becomes directed at me. I guess that it's part of the process. The worst of it is that I feel that I have in some way cultivated that anger and derision. I wish I could reassure my Mother that we are on the same side and that my actions are about making our collective life better and not her life worse.

I just wish that she would trust me and not see me as some inept idiot who is trying to ru(i)n her life.