Dad didn't recognise her.
He's not eating, barely drinking. Sleeping, mostly. Slipping closer to unconsciousness.
W and I are on a plane tomorrow, 8 days after our last return. There was still discussion of Dad coming home during that visit, at least for a while. I had doubts about the feasibility of that plan and knew that I would return sooner than the next trip arranged for 2 December. I booked our flights yesterday, mostly out of worry for Mum. Even though I knew (I knew) things were ending, I didn't expect that call today.
It might be as long as a couple of weeks, they say.
Mum thinks he's comfortable -- at least, he doesn't seem tense or anxious. I choose to believe that inside his head, where the tumour is growing and destroying his functioning, he is replaying happy memories. He and I spent a lot of time over these past 11 months reminiscing and laughing. He has lived a good life.
I told him I loved him the last time I saw him and he knew it was true. He said I love you very much, too.
Even if I could talk with him one last time, many more times, forever, it would never, ever be enough.