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Dad's failing. Morphine through a constant injection beneath the skin on the belly. Mike & Alexis have left for Oop North. Everyone a bit frayed. Poor dear woke up for a moment, saw everyone around him (just one of those happy co-incidences) smiled in recognition, then drifted back off to sleep. In Xanadu did Kublai Khan...sweet pipe dreams my dear...probably the best way to go, all things considered: and wash up on the far side of the Lethe in some other place, still drinking the milk of paradise.
Doc says he could hang on like this for days - I say as long as he's not having too much pain. I think the stuff he's on would put even me into orbit; I just hope it's enough.
He still snores like a good'un though, which is a familiar comfort, much changed from the source of irritation the last time I shared a hotel room with him for a funeral in Dublin in '98.
He's not conscious any more.
He is the best man I've ever met, and he's had a good innings, and he fought in WWII, and he brought up two boys that rarely acknowledged the sacrifices he made for us, and all he wants to be remembered as, is as a man who tried to do his Christian duty, which is more than any vainglorious, trumpeting, self-serving, self-publicising, television evangelists have ever managed.
Morning's a new day.

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June 2021

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