The guilt trip

I saw my Dad this weekend for the first time in over six months.

I popped into the house this morning, just before I made the journey home. I left a couple of answerphone messages to advise Dad I was on my way over.

When I arrived I used the entry phone which rings the telephone but there wasn't a reply. I tried again.

The house stank as I entered it using the key from the key safe outside the front door.

I walked from room to room. The sitting room confirmed he'd eaten lunch. The television was on maximum volume blaring out Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The answerphone bleeped repeatedly to draw Dad's attention to my earlier messages.

The bedroom was full of Radio 4, at full volume, competing with the sounds of Bob Hoskins next door. Dad was lying on the bed, on top of the bedclothes at 90 degrees to normal. He was half dressed, missing a shirt and he was fast asleep. He was lying on his back but his knees were bent. He was in an almost foetal position. A walking frame was in front of him. It was as though he had fallen asleep whilst getting ready.

I could have tried to wake him up, but I didn't. The noise in the place was deafening but, even so, I knew that my voice would probably cut through the background enough to rouse him. I couldn't do it.

Every time I see Dad I think that this could be the last time. If this was the last time, I didn't even wake him up to say goodbye. Guilt is a tough emotion to deal with.