Julie* was a saviour for our family. Bold and a little brash, jolly and joyful, always smelling faintly of Rothmans and instant coffee, she had a take-no-prisoners approach which was 100 percent necessary when dealing with my ailing dad.
Although I grew up in a typical nuclear farming family – a couple of cats, chooks, one sister and two parents – my father was diagnosed with a particularly progressive form of multiple sclerosis when I was six. He spent the next five years fighting valiantly to retain his movement, his ability to clothe, feed, toilet and shower himself, his lust for life. But he lost it all – and eventually, his battle with MS – leaving us bereft, and utterly exhausted.
What made his final years
