This morning I took my father to his quarterly cardiologist’s check-up, and while waiting our turn, I spoke to him about what I’d been up to at work – about so-and-so that was his client and now mine who called me asking a favour – and he had some difficulty remembering who I was talking about.
No big deal, since it’s been a few years since he’s been in the office.
Then he asked me where my mother was. I missed a beat, then quickly recovered to tell him as flatly as possible, for who’s benefit, I still don’t know, that Mummy passed away in February it’s been almost four months now.
In eyes dulled by the passage of Parkinson’s, you can still see shock, grief, immense sadness, and then resignation.
I do not look forward to telling him again when he forgets again.