And so we wait
Today Dan's sleeping, but yesterday the man ran me ragged. His body is all that is left of him in this world, his body and random patterns. He sits rolling and lighting cigarettes, but there's nothing in his hands. He verbally goes through nonsensical algorithms about things he's trying to fix. He's liable to mistake anything for something else. Last night, sitting up in bed, he reached over and grabbed my shoe off my foot and tried to light it with his cigarette lighter. Now I've put all the matches and lighters where he can't find them, as if he were a toddler, except that toddlers don't have a 40+ year long smoking habit.
And it's like that. Yesterday, I mean, like chasing around a toddler who wouldn't take a nap. He heaps random food onto a plate, takes a few bites and ends up dropping most of it onto the floor. He falls down. Of course he was tired, but he wouldn't go to bed. He can't be left alone, because who knows what he might put in the microwave, or his mouth. And we can't have him going outside. Lucky if it's ten out there right now, and he's too weak to make it back up the steps.
He tries to touch things only he can see. Things are pouring out of his memory, or somewhere, into his consciousness. He said he had to go get his sister and take her to church; later, he talked about someone getting married. I don't remember him ever taking his sister to church, and it's been a long time since anyone we know got married.
Now, though, he's sleeping. When the hospice nurses and I got him up to check his vitals and give him his pills, it was almost impossible to rouse him. Somebody's bringing over a morphine drip tonight.
And it's like that. Yesterday, I mean, like chasing around a toddler who wouldn't take a nap. He heaps random food onto a plate, takes a few bites and ends up dropping most of it onto the floor. He falls down. Of course he was tired, but he wouldn't go to bed. He can't be left alone, because who knows what he might put in the microwave, or his mouth. And we can't have him going outside. Lucky if it's ten out there right now, and he's too weak to make it back up the steps.
He tries to touch things only he can see. Things are pouring out of his memory, or somewhere, into his consciousness. He said he had to go get his sister and take her to church; later, he talked about someone getting married. I don't remember him ever taking his sister to church, and it's been a long time since anyone we know got married.
Now, though, he's sleeping. When the hospice nurses and I got him up to check his vitals and give him his pills, it was almost impossible to rouse him. Somebody's bringing over a morphine drip tonight.