Whatever it may be, it is what it is. I no longer have a mind, or semilogical thought set.
Where is the guy who can spin off cantankerous cacophonies of kaka like it’s nobody’s business?
A new list of names to add to the list of names of people to thank for being people.
Can I be too tired right now to name them?
Where is the amateur professional amateur when I need him to stand in my stead and mount the steed like an Android tablet that suddenly displays a need to find the mount drive named something like /mnt/, which amounts to mountains of rubble and gibberish rubbish to the noncomputersavvy. Savvy?
Of course not.
My father is dying, dying, dying and I’m past the point of pain, pretending to pretend my father is there in some form of his old capacity while pretending in pretense, past tense, tension (the hyper kind), that he’s like a newborn child all over again, like adopting an autistic child with no clue which clues to the child’s nonclues indicates the child’s needs without pretending.
Is my father clueless or stubborn? Is he ignoring or is he tired?
He never liked dwelling on discussions about his health, his PRIVATE health, with strangers.
But he loved talking.
Now he grunts, coughing out sounds we interpret as “yes” or “no” to the best of our ability until he indicates we were wrong.
He is weak, getting weaker, never the weakest this week. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
To have these moments with him in his time of indiscernable thought patterns.
To read much, little or nothing in his eyes, from when he chooses to look back with a blank stare.
Not even a smile.
Is it worth writing about the shriveled hands, the sunken cheeks and hollowed-out eye sockets?
When the family chooses to put in the feeding tube, the PEG line, these are the consequences we get to face.
It is up to me to serve as a warning to the rest of you — resist the temptation.
I don’t want the last memories of my father to be these moments of diminished capacity, well beyond the twilight zone of believability.
I believe I have no choice.
Suffer the insufferable.
Go with the flow. It’s all relative — many have suffered worst fates with friends and family.
And yet, not so.
Time to revise my living will — there will be no PEG line for me, no stretching my life into wide-eyed stares with no productive, contributory communication to give back.
Let me die in strength.
Let me fight the good fight while I have the capacity to say no.
While I have the fingers to type or, at the very least, the ability to dictate via brain probes.
Something…anything but this.
I am beyond crying.
I am tired of being tired of being tired.
If my thoughts aren’t worth reading, plop me in a wheelchair and push me into the woods.
That’s the joy of having no children.
Let me feed wildlife with my set of states of energy in entropic flux.
Where labels have no meaning to an ecosystem designed to eat the weak and the dying in an effort to convert energy into the ebb and flow of species sets of states of energy in regenerative reproductive mode.
Auf wiedersehen, Vati!
treetrunkdings 