I’m trying to write but the words don’t come easily. How do I describe with words those emotions for which there are no words? Nothing seems to fit. This is new territory, visceral and beyond the logic of language.
My father is dying.
At first, it was a slow process; Alzheimer’s steadily nibbled his memories, his abilities and his pride. Then a perforated intestine sent him to the ER, a hospital stay, rehab. And now home with the Angels of Hospice.
We talk during the small interludes in his sleep.
He says he is ready. He worries about my Mom. He tells me he loves me. He appreciates the smallest kindness. He asks where he will be buried.
I tell him I love him. That Mom will be OK, we’ll take care of her. That it is OK to go.
He asks when his father is coming to get him. I say when you are ready.
On the day I have to leave his bedside to return to my home in Colorado, I know I will never see him again. Despite the surreal picture before me - the hospital bed in the living room, oxygen tank, stacks of bed pads – Dad seems peaceful. His skin still soft as it stretches over the bones of his face. I hold his hand, kiss his cheek and say Goodbye.
