I visited my father's old high school, which is not just a high school anymore, and gave them a copy of the yearbook for 1953. I've not stepped foot into a high school for years, and it's an interesting thing to behold from this side of 40. It is near the old five & dime, so while I was in the area, I bought Groucho glasses and pig noses to hopefully give him a smile with - which worked.
He hasn't been awake much, and not much lucidity when he is awake. His total food and drink intake for last week is, essentially, about 8oz of liquid (water, and OJ), about half a gram of banana bread, about a gram of eggplant, two blueberries, and a grape, and nothing to eat for about five days now. He's been very clear about being done and ready to go for a little while now and in all honesty, we are also as ready as we are going to be. That sounds and feels selfish, in a way, but it isn't - to want someone to die in order to end their suffering is not selfish. To crave normality when the world no longer makes sense is not selfish. To call myself unselfish, however, also feels like I doth protest too much, methinks, and I'm glad that we humans are capable of experiencing and understanding ambivalence.
We are past the point of recording his voice and getting stories. I have voicemails to fall back on, when I need to hear his voice again.
In my stream-of-consciousness from the last entry, I mentioned that there's a list of things that are slowly being added to, mostly as they occur to me, of "lasts." The last time he'll ever talk about music with me was several weeks ago, actually, when we talked about folk music for the last time and I made his day because I asked him for the recommendation. The last time I saw him sit down and eat a full meal was months ago, when he ate chinese food with us - and that was the last time I'll have seen him at my house, the last time he'll ever stop in at random like he always did. I don't remember the last joke he told me, but that's already happened, too. The last time he's said "I love you" was two days ago, because he hasn't responded to me since then, not audibly. The last time I saw him outside, with the sun on him, was more than a month ago. The last time I saw him walk without a walker was several months ago. The last time I saw him walk without difficulty was more than a year ago. The last time he was the man I knew most of my life was ... gosh. At a certain point, these lasts become pointless to track.
I will miss this town when I leave. The incredible kindness that we've experienced - little things - from complete strangers has been strangely missing from the smaller-town-Florida life that I've grown accustomed to in the time I've been away from this city. We waited a little bit at a drive through for coffee, and got it for free, completely unexpectedly. I got sunburned (in the shade!) and walked into a beauty store and she told me not to bother with makeup but gave me a bunch of skincare things to help repair the damage, instead, and gave me a bunch of free things. A neighbor washed our clothes for us. Another neighbor said she'd help with ... his effects. I mean, most of these people don't know us from adam or what we're going through, but there's something about the easy things that mean the most, and it feels like the city I love.
Weirdly, I had to leave this city to fully appreciate the love that I see in it now. A friend got me back into reggae not long ago, albeit the much newer renditions of it that passed me by, and it's become a steady part of my life since. One of the overriding themes is how much love there is in the world, and how it's present in every-day things like giving a stranger a joint, or telling someone that their hair's nice today, or ... I mean, insert thing here. I feel it, I think, or I'm starting to. I've been too depressed to see it lately, but it's there in the small things and quiet moments. Love abounds. I love that friend deeply, and I love my father, and I love the old hippy that's treated us like she's known us forever.
In the style of the last Last Visit post, I've been adding to this as I go, with little consideration for style or clarity, but I've also not written for the past several days - life and death has been far too busy and draining.
He had a paradoxical reaction to Lorazepam. It is, among other things, supposed to help ease agitation and paranoia, and a paradoxical reaction is rare and is what it sounds like - extreme agitation and paranoia. I gave my father his first dose of morphine last night with the ok from the on-call nurse at his hospice care group. Nobody wanted to administer it to him; we are all so afraid of such a hefty drug, and to a degree that's a good thing, but we often lack the nuance required in these things - a healthy person should not take it, a hurt person needs it for pain, and it's a balm to a dying person.
The cancer has robbed him of himself, but I suspect that most of this is just his brain waiting for his body to catch up.
I spoke briefly with Nancy, and old friend of his, last night. I read the message to him, and it seemed to calm him. He remembers her whole family - I'm named (sort of) after her late sister.
This has been so hard, and I've been conscious the whole time of being just one in the sea of all humanity that has or will experience this. I'll be trying, once all is said and done, to speak to a monk at my old temple about this before I leave. I may not be a Buddhist, but I believe in the peace it affords, and I think Dad could appreciate that.
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