I can see his bones poking through the back of his shirt as I watch him through the window. He knows I'll work a bit and come back. But sometimes, I pause to watch him as he sits there, enjoying the sun on his skin

It all started in March. Dad's in the hospital, come, they called.  It was dicey, the first days. We almost lost him. Pneumonia, starvation, pulmonary embolism, an unidentified mass in his stomach, loss of hearing, flashbacks, paranoia, and the beginnings of dementia.  And he's gone blind - that was the worst blow for him. 

We never knew. He still sounded like his old self on the phone. Always has. Still does. So he didn't tell. Didn't want to worry anyone.  That alone makes me weep.     

Somber faced medical staff. He can't live alone anymore. He'll need to go into an institutionalized care facility or live with a family member. One by one, the heads went down. Silently, the social worker picked up a list of care facilities. Hearts and air grew heavy. 

I'll move back, I said, shocking eveyone including myself.  He can live with me.  I'd thought about it, but didn't decide until that moment.

But, I'd seen him get confused and scared when new voices walked into the hospital room. "Who's there? Who are you?" he'd ask, curling his emaciated body into a ball on the bed.  I couldn't leave him that way for the rest of his days. Couldn't. He is my father.

So I packed up my home. Hugged my daughter. Sobbed not just a little as I left her behind. With thousands of miles of road behind me, I find myself in the middle of nowhere on the Canadian prairies, where the sidewalks get rolled up at six PM. Land of my birth.

He's lost so much weight. Too much. A third of his body weight?  Legs that look like the starving children Sally Struthers introduces us to. Strong hands that once flung bales of hay with no effort are little but skin stretched tautly across bone.

I have to keep security locks on the doors so he can't wander at night even though sometimes he yells at me for it. I work with one ear listening, grateful to have work that travels along with my computer.

When he's not living in a world of flashbacks and the enemy, he likes hugs and oatmeal for breakfast. Loves the sun on his skin and being able to open his own window when he wants to.  He loves warm baths, hot cocoa  and hugs before bed.

It is not easy to live with, the growing bouts of dementia. Yet, they are sprinkled with glorious bursts of lucidity and nostalgia and laughter.  Remember when, Dad? I reckon the only thing harder than caring for him would be not caring for him.

Most days, I struggle to identify the emotions I feel, much less find words to describe them.

I have realized, though, that it's possible to feel joy and heartbreak at the same moment. Shared laughter while my heart feels like it's shattering.  But, I'll talk about the garden another time...