My father is in hospital again. He was quite limp two days ago. The nursing home staff could not wake him up and in the afternoon they called a doctor. He thought it might be pneumonia and called the hospital. My father was transferred there in the evening. They left a message about all this on the phone in London, but Lauren and the children had left for Los Angeles the previous day. When someone from the nursing home called the Reading phone yesterday morning, my mother and I were just about to leave home on our way to visit my father. I called the hospital and learned that they had no idea what was wrong with him. They appeared to be doubtful about the nursing home’s doctor’s diagnosis. By the evening he seemed better. When I called, he was awake and he was eating, which pretty much exhausts the repertoire of his activities nowadays. This morning he was fine, as well. However, the news of my father’s plight shook my mother pretty badly. As soon as she learned that he was in hospital, she slumped. Uncharacteristically, she became quiet and gloomy. It was clear she was losing her will to fight, which worried me because of her own condition. One thing gave me some confidence in her ability to bounce back: she was worried that she would be the one who would pick up the phone when they called from the hospital to inform us about my father’s death. She was relieved when I told her I made sure this would not happen. By this morning, she seems to be better. She is still eager to follow my dietary regime, which usually involves much more than she would eat on her own accord. In spite of my father’s crushing senility, which makes mockery of his life, as well as of the very notion of being alive, I now hope he will live long enough for my mother to recover sufficiently to be able to cope with his death and her illness. A borrowed life, as it were.