Dad called us all today, one after the other, to say that he was concerned about mum. Not only had she spent hardly any time awake, but dad actually said she was 'all stiff'. This was something Dr Humerus had asked about when I called her about mum the other day. We presume that the sudden cutting of the Risperidone does not imply an immediate decline in its effect. Either that or something else is wrong. There was a brief round of inter-sibling telephone calls the end result of which is that Greg, who was going to the house today anyway, will see how mum is doing and take whatever action he feels necessary.

The switch from the old faithful attack-mother to the latest model walking dead has been one of those salutary experiences that force home the message that doctors and medicine are something to be taken very seriously indeed. We have not yet, fingers crossed, had a major mishap but this could so clearly have happened.

Tomorrow all dad's chickens come home to roost - but in the most desirable way. It appears that, of the family, all those of us in this southern hemisphere are about to converge on the house. It is as if we are heading in for a family conference or wake, mum being very much the subject of either option. I have a feeling we will be coming to a conclusion.

There has been a sense of acceleration over the last few weeks. I have sensed the growing desperation of dad for vital human contact. I have seen - perhaps - the final dissipation of all that was our mother, leaving a shell that either lashes out or passes out. There is dad's obvious recognition that no longer are he and mum 'managing all right'. And there are the numerical curves leading mum to her end: if she continues to spend more and more time asleep she will soon never wake. If she continues to eat less and less she will soon blow away.

Tomorrow we see the start of a new phase, or we report an anticlimax.