My very good friend M, who has been a saint the past few months,* asked me today if I thought I'd got closer to acceptance. She's right, I suppose.
Dad is home now. The clot could kill him any time, a new clot could occur and kill him any time and the tumour will kill him eventually. I don't think he's pursuing any more treatments. He wants to be comfortable. I have no idea what that means in terms of time frame. I suspect the worst.
M asked me if I was going to open the envelope to share the sex/identity of the baby with Dad. That's faded to a triviality right now. I don't think he needs to know who the baby is; he knows he would have loved him or her. It might simply be a reminder of what he won't get to experience.
He has a wheelchair. I've just bought the player for his books on CD. There's a ramp. Mum will need home help, though their farm is too distant from town to automatically qualify for the usual assistance. He doesn't feel great today, but was happy to be home.
I'm so glad I'm going to be with them from Saturday. It can't come soon enough.
* I couldn't ask for a better friend -- she's helped me process tonnes of shit, all the while quietly undergoing shit of her own, I just learned.