Meditations While My Father is Dying

I am typing this on my trusty and ancient word processor as my father lays dying ten feet away in his bed. Or is it lies? He knew how to conjugate that tricky verb better than anyone I ever knew.

He’s closing in on two weeks in hospice. He can no longer communicate. I wish it would end quickly for him.

I brought a daffodil from the yard to decorate the room. He loved this flower and could recite “Daffodils” by Wordsworth.

He wanted Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” read at his service. That’s it. No eulogy, no testimonials. Just like he preached—brevity above all else.

He has received outstanding care from the hospice team and care giving staff at the assisted living center. My heart breaks for those seniors who can’t afford this.

We simply don’t understand death in this culture. We are immature and superstitious about it.

Lots to do after he passes. But it will all get done.

Lots of questions about this looming new chapter in my life. They will all get answered in one way or another.

To think he was born during Herbert Hoover’s last year as President.

He’s got a Bible on the bookshelf. He’s also got several volumes of poetry. In the end, poetry mattered a lot more.

He just received another dose of morphine and a drug described to me as “powered bourbon.”

I wish I could be at his side at the end, but that seems unlikely. This isn’t a television show.

Elmer and I keep walking miles and miles. I barely read the news. I am reading Orwell and a book about the history of haikus.

I feel so lucky that my extended family has all come together in this moment. No one is estranged. No one wants anything.

Rain falls outside. I can hear traffic and the hum of the heater and the ticking of a clock. It’s just past nine in the morning.