Blotches on hands and arms. Shallow breathing.  No eating and drinking very little.  Gradually slipping away.  Sleeping almost constantly.

Today, my dad’s brother came over.  He’s one of the funniest human beings you could ever meet; that this guy is not a stand-up comedian is shocking.  At the same time, he’s been through a lot. When he came into the room with Dad, my father was more animated than he had been in days. No real smiles or words, just a little more movement in his face and hands.  I left them together and worked on the other things going on…mopping floors and cleaning the house.

Dad’s brother got up to leave and asked me when we thought his brother would recover. Had we been to the doctor?  Could we give him some kind of medicine? It was hard to know exactly what to say or how to help him understand the situation.  I tried the subtle approach: “You know he’s on his own journey now, and I’m not sure things are going to change.”  He replied, “Yea, but I mean let’s make him eat some food!  Let’s make him a protein shake.”  I paused.  “You know, my Dad’s dying.  He’s going to be gone in just a few days.”  He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity.  Tears welled in his eyes.  A moment of shared understanding. “Ok well, I’d better get home.  I’ll come back over this weekend.”

Standing there in the driveway as he pulled out, I thought about the number of people I had told this information.  My dad’s friends, former coworkers, former boss.  All were dumbfounded, all at a loss.  How?, they’d say.  When did this happen, they’d ask.  I haven’t come up with a pat answer yet.  Most of these people I didn’t know well, and I’ve been a little unsure on how to break this news.

As I shuffled back inside, it was time to wash his body, shave his face, comb his hair, and just clean him up a little bit.  To say that this process was comical just doesn’t do it justice.  First, he was pissed I lifted him out of the bed. He growled “nah, nah.” I spoke to him in a kind of silly voice, “it’s time for a tubby!” “I don’t want no tubbbbyyy.” I sat him in the chair, and he demanded Mom do this part of the process.  After it was done, Mom said, “Don’t you feel better?” and in the LOUDEST statement he’s made yet, he said, “NO!”  Then I started shaving him; he didn’t like it, and grumbled.  We finished it up, got him back in the bed, and I asked, “Now, that’s better isn’t it?”  He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No.”  I couldn’t help but laugh, and my Mom called him Bozo for being so ridiculous.  I swear to you, he looked up and gave me a kind of sneaky grin.

He quickly fell asleep. I sat for a while.  He no longer wants the TV on in the room.  The noise is too loud, the sound too grating.  The house is quiet.  His breathing is still rhythmic.  At the same time, something has changed.  It’s subtle, and I feel it more than I see it.  The waiting and watching, of course, continues.  I’m thankful I’m here, grateful for this moment.  In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator is the loudest thing I hear.