10.00 a.m. ‘Dad? Dad, are you still there?’ She hated the phone calls. Hated them for how impractical they were and how she couldn’t tell if he’d fallen asleep, switched his mobile off or forgotten how to work it. Above all, though, she hated the impersonal nature of it and the fact that it was so blindingly obvious she hadn’t taken the time to go and see him face to face. ‘Dad, just say something and let me know you can hear me.’ She always resisted the urge to be impatient with him or to raise her voice. Whatever the reason for the lack of response, it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. It was that horrible, hateful disease. She spent what little free time she now had reading up on it and none of it made her any more optimistic about what was to come. How did they treat a disease when they didn’t know how it was contracted in the first place? Nearly half a million people in the UK were affected by Alzheimer’s and yet no son or daughter or grandchild could be told for sure how they’d got it.
