Alex de Campi: We'll have a poodle, a Baby Grand, and roses every day

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11.11.07 Hippocrates Shrugged

My father died last night at 11.30pm EST. I was on nurse duty, snoozing in the other twin bed in the little rose-coloured Japanese guestroom with its lovely view of the bay, where we had put him after he had become too weak to climb to his own room. He had been declining sharply all day, barely responsive to his surroundings, his eyes glazed half-shut, his mouth open.

By 10.30, when I went to bed, he sounded like he had water in his lungs - every breath rattled. And the dog and I dozed, and when I woke up he was cold and not breathing any more. His empty body looked as if it had been switched, for a simalcrum of yellow wax.

Dad wasn't especially religious, although he had grown up going to church. These last few days, after he could no longer form words, his brow was furrowed and his eyes were bright with fear. He clasped and unclasped his hands, reaching upwards, in prayer or argument to something above him.

He did not go gently - his spirit hung on to his cancer-ravaged body far beyond medical prediction - as if that something had come down and whispered to him in the night, "there is nothing after this".

( 3:32 PM )

1 Comments:

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Je voulais en apprendre plus sur toi parce que j'admire ton travail, je tombe sur une note où tu parles français, je te trouve marrante. Et puis voilà cette note sur ta page d'accueil. Que dire ? Je ne te connais pas mais je souffre avec toi.

By sliya, at 11:30 PM