Last night Greg and I went to the airport to meet Derek and Janet, Rebecca and Connor, who had all flown in from points European on the same flight. Before they emerged from the immigration gates Greg and I had a long talk about dad.

Greg seems to be having a much harder time than I am. He is preoccupied with how we might have done things differently, perhaps even tortured over the question. I eschewed the usual soothing noises, this situation not being one that I feel sits comfortably with me, and probably not with him either. Instead, I simply stated that if I had been blessed with foresight there were two things I would have changed - the medication dad received and the trips to the hospital.

The medication, however, was part and parcel of the deal I thought we made with the home. We knew, I maintain, that any difficulty they had handling dad would be medicated away with sedatives and so on. Although at that stage we were not aware that we should legally have had the opportunity to bless or veto any prescription of any medication, had we done so it is quite possible that the home would respond that without medication they could not cope, nor do their job properly, and that dad must return home. Well, that was a bridge we had already burnt; dad could not return home, so he would have had to come and stay with one of us. None of us wanted that. Perhaps we should have been prepared for it, but if so, why consider the home in the first place?

Dad's hospital treatment was such a rude shock to all of us that we simply had no way to foresee it, and so there is nothing to feel guilty about there either. I think we all thought that hospitals were comfortable caring places, and we have learnt that they are nothing like that. They are more like a mechanic's shop: apply the toolbox, fix the problem and get the job back on the road as soon as you can.

Greg now regrets that he saved so few things of dad's. He mentioned particular items that we saw walking out the door in the hands of strangers, at the garage sale. And yet, Greg had been so uninterested in setting aside these things when I was doing so. I told him that I have quite a few things of dad's, and mum's, here in my spare room, and he is welcome to whatever he wants of them.

When our visitors arrived we drove them home across Sydney, and sat down with Regan and Cassie for a late dinner. The conversation was good - not preoccupied with dad, but not ignoring the subject either, not maudlin, not false, not forced.

I came back to my place later, and arrived at midnight. I feel strangely composed. This week, I have stayed at home, avoided all situations where I might have had to talk to anyone, and Greg and Rachel have respected my wish to be kept out of further funeral arrangements. It has allowed me to think my own thoughts. Frankly, nothing else seems very important. And since I neither want to talk about things that are unimportant, nor talk about my father's death, I have remained silent. Tomorrow is the funeral, so tonight is the last night for dad's body. It seems all quite neatly arranged. I am aware that these feelings can be transient, illusory almost, but it feels pretty certain.