Tired

       He is tired. So tired. He closes his eyes and sings along with the choir that has come to entertain the old people. It is near the end of his life. He can feel that. Death has entered through the back door. She waits for him swishing her skirts. A breeze dances by. It tickles his sunken cheekbones. Not quite yet.

     After, he will accept a cup of punch thickened with powder so he can drink it without choking too much. He will refuse the offer of a cookie. His taste has changed. Food he used to enjoy now not so much.

     The shakiness of confusion is evident in his quiet voice. He turns to me and tells me that someone here at the home has stolen his wallet. This is a claim that he makes often. "The boss lady has your wallet in a safe so other people can't steal it," I remind him. He mutters something about social security checks. I know he is thinking about getting a part-time job and his own apartment. But he can no longer do those things. His past enjoyment and independence are now fading memories.

     "It's time for you to go now," he says gently. And I know he is tired. I take my leave, unsure as always as to whether or not he will be alive in a few more days.

                                     ~ sapphoq on life ~

Mirror

     Yes you can save it to somewhere on your computer and use it on the internet at will. Credit and link back not necessary. Oh, and copyright troll monopolists, bugger off.

     Headlights flash by on the front window. I cannot sleep. It is a cop car going after who or what I do not know. I shush the two year old cat whose name is Sirius Black the Cat, with apologies to J.K. Rowling. Although if she were to meet him, she would understand and nod in approval. Sirius continues to play with the free-form cement like object I found on a construction site under a bridge near some train tracks. It hangs from the curtain rod on a red string. He finds it irresistible.

     The housemate snores. The bedroom is too hot. Sirius has shifted to a pillow at the bottom of the bed. I stretch my legs. He bites one of my feet. Yeah, that hurts.

     I toss the blankets away. Still too hot. Aspirin substitute I think. I stagger out of the bed and through the living room. The vertigo is moderate. Whenever I first start walking after sleeping or not sleeping, my body is awkward. I am used to it by now. The world spins and bobs to the left. When I do fall, I fall to the right. A swallow of soda from a half-emptied can in the fridge. And so here I am.

     I am glad that the housemate buys cheap light bulbs. That used to infuriate me. Now with the increased light sensitivity-- pure photophobia the t.b.i. eye doc called it-- I celebrate dimness. And quiet. But there is hardly any quiet. I can hear people farting from a block away. Go figure.

     It does not take extraordinary sense to know that my father is dying. I'd gone to see him before dinner. He was slouched in his easy chair in the bedroom. Even on his death chair, he was plotting how he could go back to work. "The partial plate didn't cost me any money," he said. [It did. But his rep payee takes care of his bills now]. "I want to go back to work. Part-time. I think full-time would be too much for me to handle." I nod. A concession made to his deteriorating physical and cognitive condition. Part-time will have to do. I hate it when he does these things. He worries about money. All the time.

     "What would you do with the extra money?" I asked. He wants better quality clothing. He is a stick figure now. His shirt and pants hang off him like rags. I want to run away. Dad was always such a sharp dresser. Damn.

     After the visit, I drove to the gym. Burned up seven hundred calories on the treadmill. Punished my muscles for his pain.

     Before the visit, the hospice social worker called me to check in. "Are you wanting a visit?" she asked tentatively. She is young. New. I've only met her once. "I appreciate the phone calls," I told her. I am exhausted. I don't think I can show up for one more thing. It is too much.

     Everything is too much. Not sleeping. Dad dying. The noise. The lights. The irregular sleeping and not sleeping. Sirius playing and banging around. It is all too much.

                           ~ sapphoq on life

He says

Yes, you can take it, save it, and use it on the internet. I don't care.
Credit is already on the tag. Link back is not required.

     He stirs from his after lunch nap on the easy chair. He is frowning in his sleep. His mouth hangs open. I wait.

     He wakes up. "I'm getting weaker," he says. I say, "Yes." I've learned to allow him to talk about his illness and impending death. Anything other than simple agreement gets him riled up and then he says he doesn't want to talk about it.

     I wait.

     He traces his sunken cheekbones and his chin with the fingers of his left hand. "I'm losing more weight," he says. I nod and say, "Yes."

     He points in the direction of a newer housemate. "She stinks," he says matter-of-factly. "She will die first."

     "Saturday," he says. "My teeth are coming back Saturday." A staff person bounces over just then. "Tomorrow honey. You and I are going to the dentist tomorrow to get your partial plate." They exchange pleasantries. "I'm going home now for the day," she says. "You just got here," he laughs. And I know that he knows that she is part of the morning crew. "I worked the whole eight hours by myself," she tells me. I know that had to suck. One staffer with all these impaired older folks. Too many frail elderly people to look after.

     "Saturday?" he asks me. "My teeth are coming back Saturday?" "No, Dad. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Tuesday." "Who is taking me?" I tell him the staffer who just left will be taking him. "Oh, okay. Have I had three meals yet today?" I realize that he is using breakfast, lunch, and dinner as markers for how long before nighttime. "You've had two meals today, Dad." He accepts this. "Saturday for my teeth?" he asks again. "Tomorrow," I reassure him. "Not Saturday."

     "I'm going upstairs for my afternoon nap," he says at last. "Be careful driving home."

                                   ~ sapphoq on life