I guess you could say that he has been dying since they discovered the cancer and he decided against treatment - preferring to stay home rather than enduring the indignity and discomfort of anymore time in hospitals. But until this week it hasn't felt that way.
He's been sick, but he's also been writing two books (two more books to add to his sizeable collection). He's been sick, but we've had robust discussions about education, politics, sustainability and child development. He's attended family celebrations and been able to watch my kids grow. He's been keeping up with the football, attending church, and going to the farmers markets, the Art gallery and cafes.
But now he's in bed. He's still sharp as ever. He can still see my kids and tell us why he started following Essenden all those years ago (his eldest was delivered by a Nurse Coleman whose brother played for them). But he's tired and he's sleeping more and more.
For some reason I thought that by this point I would be ready to say goodbye. But I'm not.