Last weekend we had a scare. My father’s health took a sharp decline. So much so, that I was thinking we were upon the final days. But his blood pressure was still pretty good.
When he was awake, he was staring at the ceiling toward his left. I would call his name, and he would look at me. The lost look slipped away and my father would reappear. Then, his gaze would return to the same place.
It is very hard to understand his words now. If he can form some words, they are a whisper with no sound. I have learned to ask him questions, hoping my questions are at least tangentially related.
“What are you looking up at, dad?”
“Did you say, God?”
“What does God look like?”
“Is God talking to you?”
“God is talking to you but you can’t understand, is that right?”
“Is there anyone else there,”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Is it Aunt Fran?” (deceased sister)
“Are you ready to go, dad?”
“You aren’t ready to go yet, is that right?”
"Let’s lay you back some, and close your eyes.”
“You’re scared to close your eyes?”
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Do you want mom to sit with you?”
“I’ll get her.”
Calling the Hospice nurse, she directed me to the “blue book.” I was expecting to read some sort of instruction, but that is not what the blue book is.
The blue book tells a story, formatted as a poem, about watching a massive sail boat float toward the horizon. Until the sail boat is gone from the author’s sight. Yet, at the next shore, the sail boat is being waved in to port, “...and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: “Here she comes!”
The sail boat is near, we can see it in the distance, riding on calm waves.
But today, he is enjoying chocolate donuts.