On March 6, 2014, my Dad dropped dead - literally - falling pathetically into a pile of empty booze bottles he'd left at the top of his stairs, just inside the back door of his home in southern Alberta.
He was still in his pajamas.
He was 74 1/2 years old, semi-retired, and still married to my mother, with whom he had celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary about 6 months before.
What followed his death, what happened next to me and my sister, is the topic of this blog. I hope that one day, someone will read this cautionary tale, recognize their own impending doom, and move quickly to prevent this happening to them.
Dad died. He left Mum behind, malnourished, dehydrated, unable to walk or look after herself,
and he thought he'd been taking care of her. This is the story of how I, along with my sister and wife,
tried to deal with what he left behind.
