Finally, after being warned off by norovirus, and a day spent waiting for the message from the hospital that never came, I saw dad. Rachel, Greg and I had agreed to meet at the village at 2 pm. I saw Rachel's car ahead of me as I drove down the street beside the retirement village, and we met in the car park.

I was keen to go straight in to see dad, but we talked for quite a while at the office. What struck me about this conversation was that when I asked whether dad was better or worse than when he went into hospital, I was told that he was the same. 'So, there was no incident of unconsciousness, or him falling out of his chair?' I asked. 'Oh, I tell a lie. Yes, there was that. Twice on the day we called for the ambulance I found him flat on his back on the floor beside his chair.' So, I felt I just had to see for myself.

Dad was in bed, with the oxygen tubes in his nostrils. The nurse was just raising his feet a little. Dad was weak, incoherent, and uncoordinated. He looked for all the world like a baby, unable to control his limbs, restless, making sounds, not words, and completely helpless. The nurse pointed out some juice that had been left for dad, then left. Rachel came in a minute later.

We tried talking to dad, but there was little sign that he was able to understand, although he clearly knew we were there. Soon, Greg turned up. We interpreted dad's restlessness as physical discomfort, so we tried raising him up the bed, straightening his legs, raising and lowering the sheet. Nothing really seemed to make any difference. His legs are going oedematic, so they are swollen and dark, and must be uncomfortable.

Here is the situation:

Dad's heart is failing. It is enlarged, and pumping poorly, which is why his blood pressure is all over the scale.
His brain is either deteriorating badly or is starved of oxygen, so he cannot help himself, cannot speak, cannot feed himself or support himself.
His lungs are filling with fluid, and his breathing is rather laboured, with pauses for quite long spells, then starts up again.

All in all, a pretty serious combination: cardiac, cognitive, and respiratory failure.

The people at the hospital don't think he is ill enough to stay there, or cannot be treated. The people at the hostel think he is too ill to stay there, and cannot be given the level of care he needs. Somewhere in between the two there must be another place for him - presumably the nursing home. The hostel is looking after him for a short time, probably until monday. At that time they will, if he has not rallied, almost certainly send him to the nursing home.

We shall see what they decide. Dad clearly needs a higher level of care now, and whether this is available at the nursing home, or requires a full-time personal nurse, we do not yet know.

We put the friction of the past week completely behind us. I also wanted to avoid any talk about what had happened or who was to blame, and focus purely on one subject: what do we do now?

Having someone in the room who appears to be very close to dying changes everything. You can't make jokes, you can't talk about a quick end, a merciful release, or anything like that. All you can do is talk to the person and tell them that you are there to look after them. Dad seemed to want this. At one time I moved my hand near his and I saw his move to meet mine - so I just put mine over his, on the sheet. I looked at the two hands together - clearly of the same stock, one much older and more swollen than the other.

Outside in the carpark we wondered whether we could have done any better. I don't think we had any better solutions, really. When we moved dad into the village we really thought that he would take to it as well as he had taken to day care. In fact, we sometimes described it as 'day care every day' and dad seemed to be looking forward to it.

The odd thing was that Greg said that when he was alone with dad this week he had tried to think of good times they had spent together and just couldn't think of much. It's the same for me. Dad didn't show a lot of interest in any of us, but I didn't feel I was missing anything at the time and do not feel deprived now. In fact, I was rather proud of my father, and still am. It surprises me when my siblings seem to feel a kind of resentment towards dad. I never felt anything like that, but I appear to be the only one.

We all went next door to see mum. She had just eaten some cake, as it was somebody's birthday today, and was very pleased to see us. We 'chatted' with her. She was alert and seeing things taking place around the room. The contrast between her and dad was incredibly graphic. Ultimately, mum got teary, and I noticed that she seemed to be suffering from tactile hallucinations again - trying to get rid of 'something' on her hand.

Later in the afternoon, I went back to the house. The builders have already started. An enormous wardrobe in the smallest bedroom has been demolished and piled outside. The carpet has been removed and the floorboards are bare. The last remaining curtain has been torn down. Somehow this seems like an improvement. The carpet was a palimsest on which all the spills and accidents of our parents final days were written. The stains had sunk right through in some places and left marks on the floorboards below. I predict that when the house is finished it will appear to have absolutely nothing to do with us any more.