“Ooh, he made a deal with the devil. There is no way he is your father, he is your brother.”
No, he is my father. His hair stayed put and the grey waited to grow in. So young, but his heart did not know. His heart grew and grew in ways that a heart is not supposed to grow. In medicine, a good rule of thumb is to avoid being an interesting patient. That is the largest heart I have ever seen, the doctor said. My father is an interesting patient. Great for the doctors, not so great for him. The small grandkids gallop around and chime in with occasional sadness. “I know you are going to die.” one of them says. “That is a big thing to know about someone,” he replies. “I am going to swim in the pool now!” You start to really make deals near death. Anything to hold it at bay. Well-meaning folks send health advice. Friends ask in hushed voices, “Are you sure there is nothing else?” He knows he is dying. He wants to live but not if this is living. At the same time, death is so very final, you know. What is he waiting for? When everyone gets home? That will be tonight. When it is his birthday? That’s Tuesday. When we all head home leaving our echoes and forgotten articles of clothing? For now we sit around the bed looking at him, looking over him to the pond, birds, and occasional deer. Sit and wait. This is the longest memorial service I have ever been to, someone jokes. We joke in sadness even though most of the jokes are not any good. We whisper and then we try to talk matter-of-factly about what comes next as if we were making a grocery list. I look outside and see the grandkids, the best of what he leaves behind. I look inside the medicine cabinet of rows and rows of pills. Unused catheters and bandaging materials. He leaves these behind, too. Once the difference between life and death, no longer effective at separating the two.
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