This morning lying in bed, following my gut, thinking I can do this, I can't live with the guilt if I don't.  Two hours later admitting I can't do it.  Fooling myself.  He didn't know me, didn't remember how to eat, didn't recognize the food in front of him.  Spilled most of it on the floor trying to get up.  Went to the shed and dropped a big poo on the floor, the toilet seat then walked in it.  Poo on his hands, on everything.

Helen, friend and nurse, not Richard's sister, arrived just after I'd cleaned it  up.  She'd offered to come sit with him while I went and did the horses and the shopping.  Was afraid to leave him alone.  She hadn't seen him for awhile (thanks to covid19 restrictions).  She couldn't believe I was taking care of him on my own and had been so long.  He is high care, she said.   It is dangerous for him here.  He needs to be somewhere where he can stay safe.  It is no longer safe here - and you, she said, can't keep doing what you're doing. 

Helen has returned home and I sit here with the weight I didn't know I carried off my shoulders.  Decision made.  He goes for respite but he won't be coming home again.  They wouldn't let him come home again even if I wanted him to.  Now just to find him a permanent place closer to home.

And so another story ends, another begins.