It’s two hours later in Georgia, and I find myself awake deep into the night here in this southern town.  My father’s condition hasn’t really changed at all since I arrived.  I sit with him, watching his breathing as he rests, eyes open, unresponsive.  After a while, he moves, looks over at me, and a flash of recognition happens.  I ask him if he’ll drink some water…sometimes no, sometimes yes.  When he takes a few sips, I physically sit him up.  The bones on his back protrude sharply into my hand and arm as I raise him to sit.  I hold him there, and he tries to grasp the cup, shaking, slightly.  A few drips of water cross his lips, and he’s done.  I lay him back and set the cup down as I do.  In this clear plastic cup, maybe he consumed an ounce.  Maybe.

As far as the rest of the day is concerned, it’s all about logistics and finances.  My parents have limited funds, and every expense is a question.  One by one, my mother and I check off the things she’s done: paid this bill, made this decision, planned that appointment.  It is an endless series of choices to be made and considered.   In one surprising turn of events, a friend of my father’s has offered to cover the expenses of transporting him from home to a funeral home for cremation.  I had no idea how expensive such a simple task could be.  His gift of transportation makes our lives so much easier in one of the most impactful ways.

The other challenge is my mother’s mental health.  She moves in and out of inconsolable grief.  One minute, we’re talking about the Georgia Bulldogs and the upcoming football season, and then we’re talking about death and dying.  She still hasn’t fully grasped the end, and talks about plans with my dad in the future.  Gently, I offer that she stay here, in the present, and focus on what we need to do next.  It’s an hourly struggle to maintain constant focus and attention.  Combined with the problems she has with technology (my iPad’s not working!) and the phone ringing off the hook, trying to swipe to open the iPhone, it’s a hilarious and complicated dance.

Then there’s all the work I do, fitting it into the mix, classes, grading, communicating, uploading video presentations, and instructions to students.  Truthfully, being in the daily class mode has kept me sane.  It’s a welcome distraction.  

Now, as I finish up this post and settle into a meditation on death and dying, I’m brought back to moments from childhood and my father’s involvement in my life.  Reflecting on those moments is both wonderful and sad.  It’s easy to get caught up in positive experiences, and, in fact, things were often not so great.  Struggling to pay rent and concerns about food on the table, those moments also come back to me.  The stress of parents working six and seven days a week, my sisters and I at home with a sitter or on our own.  It’s all a strange mix of emotions.  In moments of clarity, I find myself drawn to a fundamental understanding that all that has passed is past.  All I need to be is in the here and now, focused on this moment.