Thursday, April 6, 2:00 PM. Amy.

Brewer isn’t doing well. For the last week or so he was quite alert and engaged when he was awake and it’s been a good time with the family. He spent a lot of time writing, I don’t know what, his diary I assume. But he’s gotten worse the last few days.

He’s been mercifully free from pain the last few months, but now it’s back with a vengeance. I’m giving him Tylenol and Motrin. I offered to bring him some morphine or codeine but he doesn’t want it. I think he’s crazy but…no, I don’t think he’s crazy.

He’s almost always asleep. It’s hard to wake him. When he wakes he is barely there and doesn’t make good sense. He is able to take some drink and broth or smoothie. The kids go in to see him once or twice a day but it’s not very satisfying for them. He is thin and pale and doesn’t respond much. I do shave him every morning.

Claire has once again been thrust into the role of nurse. She and I take turns attending Brewer and the baby, changing them, cleaning up after them. I never could’ve done what she does when I was her age. I can barely do it now. But she does it day after day with a stiff upper lip and no grumbling. Garrett, too, has taken some turns caring for his dad. He was mortally embarrassed at first, but he pushed through and got used to it. But he’s busy these days taking care of the farm, the water pump, the generator, et cetera, so he doesn’t have time to be inside much.