Last night my dad was Schrödinger’s cat. At any given point there was no knowing whether he was alive or dead. Was he dying alone then from sepsis, as I lie in bed? I oscillated between feelings of sadness and guilt to disbelief. My father has been diagnosed with two terminal illnesses at different points in time and far-outlived the prognoses of both. Perhaps it is denial, but I see my father as a very fragile sort of immortal. See Rule #1. (Context given here.)
I have been informed since that “he is doing a little better.” So some state just short of agony? When I saw him yesterday, he couldn’t talk and could scarcely move. Even the lightest brush of his left leg, caused him to yelp in pain. What I’m afraid to express to others is that while I’m relieved that he made it through the night, there’s a part of me thinking that this just means more of the same. He’ll continue to struggle to hold on to a life of pain, loneliness, depression, and selfishness. We’ll keep making the six-hour round trip drives to Podunkville, USA to watch machines keep him alive long past his expiration date. This brings us to Rule #8: They can always hurt you more.
That’s my pa.