“Good evening Dr. Drysdale.”
Says Dad from bed as Nicol, friend and caregiver, checks his evening meds.
Nicol first came to the farm when I was in college. Kristin had moved back from Alberta with her family and she met him while at the local school for a parent teacher interview. His son was in my nephew’s class.
In the early years, Nicol and I stayed up late talking love, our lives’ greatest priority. He listened to endless hours of heartbroken disappointment and fed me small doses of wisdom that was chicken soup to my cold.
As years passed, Nicol came and went. But time never got in the way of our friendship and conversations. Decades older than me, he is still my chicken soup on a hard day.
“Never trust an Oatmeal Savage.”
Says Dad, as Nicol places a cup of tea and honey beside him.
Born and raised in Glasgow, beauty and a microscopic attention to detail form the black cashmere string that weaves constant through Nicol’s colourful life.
A fly-fisherman in pursuit of utopia, Nicol wakes up at any hour of the night to watch a predicted meteor shower from the field or his favourite football team’s match on TV, in his lucky shirt.
These past couple years, Nicol has stood behind me through Dad’s hernia surgery, the $20,000 theft, my brother’s death and the conflict with my sister. He has talked me down ledges, done the tasks I can’t bear and reminded me that my life matters too.
With Andrea moving on, Nicol is taking on two more days a week of Dad’s daily meals, meds and general care. He is my ear to the ground when I am not there.