It was a bright, beautiful, warm and inviting wonderful day! I’m not able to sleep more than four hours a night. I wake up before dawn with a knot in my gut. “Is this a dream?” I wonder. “Is my Dad dying or is this a nightmare?” Every morning, early, I ask these two questions and the answer wakes me right the hell up. He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s really dying. Thoughts swirl through my consciousness. My throat dries up and anxiety grips my chest. It’s better to get out of bed then, so I let the dogs outside, and sit on the couch with the laptop.
It’s quiet in the morning unless our neighbor’s dogs are in his back yard. If they’re outside, we have barking. Lots of barking. In that case, I let the dogs back in. I feed them and settle back into the couch. No matter what I do, I’m aware of my Dad.
He can’t swallow anymore.
I bought pansies today. I bought nasturtiums, and Japanese blood grass too. Lime green leafed salvia. I aim to clean up the patio tomorrow, to pretty it up, make it make me smile. Folly.
My mom is full of grief. “I’ve known him since we were sixteen,” she says. She thinks she might travel some. “Maybe I’ll meet another old lady to travel with,” she says. I offer to travel anywhere with her.
“Really? You’d want to be with me?” she asked. She sounds surprised.
“You’re on!” she replies when I say, “Sure!”
She gave his recliner away today.
Jim and I had breakfast with two dear friends. We ate outdoors underneath Japanese maples, east of the apple tree. It was nice. Then I drove my husband to work, poor man. I came back later that day to bring Chloe. She barked at both of them and pooped on their lawn. Twice.
The doctor says Dad has days, or hours. My sister-in-law prayed with him and he said, “Good night Ralph.” That’s his name.
So I know he knows he’s dying. I wonder if I’ll know when he goes? I hope so.
