Hello Dad. Letter 1.

The excitement when you find a packet of your favourite crisps and snaffle them without being caught!!! He chose the crisps this afternoon. He put them in the cupboard. But he was surprised to find them and enjoyed eating them. We’re trying to find joy in the small things. #dementiaawareness #dementia #stillmydad

A post shared by Liz Weston (@mummywestonuk) on Aug 16, 2017 at 11:19am PDT

Early September 2017

Hello Dad.

Letter 1.

I don’t know if I’ll ever ‘publish’ this on my blog. Why? Well, first of all I don’t want to upset Mum or Team Payne. But I want to write. I want to commit things, thoughts and photos to something. So I figured here is as good as anywhere.

I really do miss you Daddy. God. I miss you so much. All that schmaltz about not knowing what you have until it’s gone. It really is true. I am fixated on what our last conversation was where you truly knew who I was. I cannot work out when that was.

Lovely Bloke thinks you knew us when we visited just as the weather warmed – the day we went to Pennington Park and you played football with Elliott and Mum and I got stuck on the balancing playscape. I’d like to think that you knew me when we were sat in the front lounge – on the sofa in the bay window. I was crying, properly sobbing onto your shoulder, asking you to fight really hard to remember me. I realise now that your lack of taking me on wasn’t you being rude, you just didn’t know who I was and why you needed to remember me! Ironic.

I miss phoning you. So much is happening for us right now. The Boys are nearly at the end of their primary school experience and we apply for Elliott to go to senior school soon. He’ll go to the place nearby and it’s got a good reputation which is reassuring. Elliott has finally made the football team. He is so happy. He’s desperate for you to watch him. I wish I’d chased it more last year, so that you might have seen him play and had the opportunity to be proud of him like I know you would be. I won’t miss boats like those again. Lesson well and truly learnt there.

I want to phone you and tell you how hard I’m finding the adulting thing. Lovely Bloke is being awesome with the boys and me. Annoying the hell out of me because I don’t find him sobbing every ten minutes, at nothing, for no reason, like I do. I am sad that you won’t remember that we have a thing where I call you every month to tell you how overwhelmed I am. That I can’t face being a grown up any more. Do you remember me phoning you and Mum when I’d do long drives back from Banbury and you’d talk to me to keep me awake whilst Mum flapped in the background about my driving at night? I need those conversations Dad. The mundane stuff would do just fine.