December 31, 2011
Today my Dad asked me where we were. It wasn’t the question that got me; it was the tone of voice.
He is dying and it is a disorienting experience, apparently. I know that sounds odd, but that is how it seems.
He had a terrible night, he was up and down, back and forth to the bathroom. I really don’t even clue into it usually, it’s an endless circle of exhausting activity. The only protection I can give my brain is to just take every second as it comes.
But sometime in the very early morning, he went into the exercise room in the dark, closed the door and fell.
My mom came downstairs to where I was sleeping. “I can’t find him!”
I really thought she’d gone mental. It’s a very small house.
I looked through it as well, and heard his voice. When we opened the door and turned on the light, he was on the floor, his legs tangled up in the laundry. I had to pull him into their bedroom, and then help him stand up to get in bed.
When he was lying down in the middle of his bed, we tried to get his c-pat mask back on, but the hose is broken. I suspect that is why he was so agitated; he hadn’t been getting any oxygen. We put the regular O2 on and he wanted mom to lie down on one side of him, and me on the other.
Let me tell you that was an odd one. Official end of even pretending to sleep. When it turned light outside I got up, and of course, he did too.
After he went to the bathroom I followed him back into the bedroom, and tucked him in.
“Where are we, Carla?”
“We are at home, Dad.”
“Well, okay.” He said it as it made absolutely no sense to him, but he would believe it if Ibelieved it.
Maybe he’s right. We really aren’t home. Home is pulling at him from beyond, and some part ofHis spirit recognizes that. I can believe now that he was a dear friend of mine in heaven, and is
going back sometime very soon.