‘Can’t you see I’m struggling?’ he asks, after having spent the last few minutes fumbling with his coat’s zip. He would have accused me of interfering had I helped sooner, but now having waited, I’ve been accused of watching him struggle. This was perhaps the earliest lesson I learnt from having a blind and deaf father; there is not always a ‘right’ response to disability.

That question plays a large role in my understanding of my dad. He uttered it out of frustration with himself, with his life, with the world around him, and there was nothing I could do other than be there when he needed me. But this was not a strenuous task, indeed it was no task at all when I was young – it was the world as I knew it. My dad began to lose his vision and hearing soon after I was born, and it had almost escaped him by time I began to understand the world around me. I can only imagine the torturous nature of having the world slowly become closed off to you whilst having your son enter into it for the first time. But this tragic transition of lives somehow balanced one another: I was being raised in an environment which was itself newly changing and adapting for my dad’s new life.