Sat PM 2

A nurse came along and I helped her turn dad to his side to check his bottom for bed-sores. The skin is sallow and not too healthy looking but nothing too worrying. She applies the nappy rash lotion K brought earlier. Job done.
When dinner is called I fetch a tray. I mix some mash into his soup, mum spoon feeds him relentlessly. He eats the lot. She then mixes some yoghurt with soft cheese to form a creamy substance, and again manages to get it all down his gullet. Well done.
Dad is barely communicative, he won't (can't) put his dentures in. In the bed next him is an attention seeking old boy. I had my suspicions confirmed by Anthony: last night he managed to fall off his bed. Twice. I tell Anthony (before handing over to him for the night) in no uncertain terms that he is not to treat, help, assist or provide any service to any person other than my dad. If he sees someone in desperate need he is most welcome indeed to alert the nurses on duty, but that is absolutely it. He is not a nurse, not qualified to provide any medical service of any kind, indeed not even to dad: there is a trained staff in the ward 24/7 for that.
A large crowd of visitors around dad's bed this evening. There's mum and I, mum's friend Haya (of previous blogs infamy), my big brother Benny and his GF Noga and nephew Idan. Mum must have learned to whisper in a helicopter (to quote Jimmy Carr) as she mention to me that one of the men in dad's room is "an Arab" like that was the disease that put him in hospital. It's the other one I'm concerned about, and when he starts to chip in as I try to coax an audible response of "yes" or "no" from dad. I politely but very firmly tell him to answer if and when he is asked something. Everybody look away uncomfortably, but I know what they're all thinking.