I used to jump off rooftops...

back at my first Uni, on a dare. I've been known to jump off a waterfall or two, the rush of the wind and the icy glassiness of the water reminding me I am alive. These leaps of faith felt markedly different to the roof-jumping I did as child, a towel tied around my neck as a cape. 

Today I trimmed my father's nails, cutting back the knarled, wizardy talons. It was terrifying, the fear that I would cut into his papery skin.  I watch him sleep but try not to hover. 'Goddamnit, Rachel! Quit bird doggin' me!' his voice is a low craggy growl. 

I sat on a long haul flight yesterday, catching up on work, sleeping in uncomfortable shapes, and fiddling with rings, letting the stones cut lightly into my skin, a reminder that I am alive, that I can feel. That I am loved and love.  

The first thing I'll notice walking into the house today is stale nicotine. This was at heart of our last argument, the one where we hung up on each other. 

'Let me get this straight in my head, Daddy: you're in pain, something's wrong, you won't go to the Doctor and you just want to be with Mama, all the while knowing the first thing she's gonna do when you arrive in the sweet hereafter is smack you on back of your head for smoking in the house? Just wanna make sure I've got the logic straight.'. 

'Don't you sass me, girl.'

'What are you gonna do, Jim? Get off the floor and smack my backside?' Cue eyerolls and simultaneous disconnects. Like father, like daughter. 

 I've traveled 3500 miles to eat crow, apolgise, and to just be there. When I get to the room, I swear, I don't even recognise him. My beautiful papa has shrunken and has a wildman beard. I don't want to recognise himz the difference is so pronounced.  I wince of the sharp click of the nail clippers.  His piano player fingers are at odds with the stains on the nails. I shudder to think how this happened, this capitulation.

I'm so tired, yet I can't seem to close my eyes for more than an hour or two without waking in panic. There is so much to sort out. Assisted living or Hospice? Selling the house, winding down a life, giving up the home he built for us...the enormity of that alone may be more he can stand. 

Later in the afternoon, I come back to the hospital, freshly hugged (with masks! Sensible family!!) by my aunt to find even more mess. Debit cards are missing, car and motorcycle loans taken out by ne'er do well brothers who call collect, wanting more money in their Prison account. What exactly is he doing in there, I almost ask. But then I remember I truly do not want to know. 

On top of my paperwork is a note from a dear friend. And I pause, breathe and remember: I am not doing this alone. This is not my battle, this is not a war. My grandmother gave me this ring and I am wearing it on the journey to anchor and remind myself that I am allowed to establish what is the priority. I don't to jump of the roof or waterfalls anymore. I already know I'm alive.