...."Maybe even until Friday. It is impossible to predict. Only God knows." This is the professional opinion of the Hospice nurse as of last Saturday night.

He is semi-comatose, often comatose. But when he is moved, he is in pain, and you can see it on his face, and he may let out a quick howl of pain. Most times, when a daughter whispers to him that she loves him, he raises his eyebrows and you can see the yearning in his face to tell us that he, too, loves us so vey much. There is an ocasional loud hiccup, sometimes 3 or 4 in a row. Mostly, he sleeps...I hope. He hasn't had intake of any sort, since Friday. Too much noise in the room can make him moan, as it startles or interrupts his drfting, I suppose. Consequently, the noise subsides. Many people don't know how to act & they talk endlessly, even loudly to a daughter or two at the foot of his bed. They are only nervous. I understand. And when the talk irritates him too much, he will groan, and the talking stops.

We 3 sisters talk little and speak softly. Thursday night he told me "Don't let them take me!" and I feigned ignorance, saying "Who take you? Take you where?" But I knew what he meant & was so mad at myself for not saying what really needed to be said. So Friday night, when he had exhausted himself after a choking fit, I told him not to be afraid, not to worry, to "follow the angels into the light." "Angels?" he managed to slur back to me.

Saturday afternoon, after a really scary choking fit, he lay exhausted and again, I told him, "Don't be afraid. Go into the light," and a sister on the other side of his bed admonished me, "He dosen't need to hear that now!" she said, and I let it slide. I won't fight with anyone at this point in our lives. My other sister told me that the sister who had admonished me had been telling Dad to go into the light since last Wednesday, at least. It was she that didn't want to hear me say that then, I now understand. I am blessed that she smokes & takes frequent breaks & often busies herself elswhere, so that when she is not around, I can tell him to have no fear, that he is going to God, that the light is there to show him the way, and to "Be brave, Daddy. Go into the light when you see it. Go into the light, don't fear the light, but go into it."

My eyes have felt sandy for over a week, now. Eyedrops feel good, but don't last long. My head is as heavy as my heart. I eat obsessively, compulsively. I often wish that I smoked cigarettes, but it is too hot to go outside and try to learn. My stomach, back and arms have broken out into hives, and I must time my Benedryl so as not to interfere with my driving. Neck and back muscles ache, and my headache drones on either in the back ground or right up front in my right eye, pounding, pounding, pounding. When I sleep, if I sleep, it is light and dreamless. And when I wake, I am drowsy, headachey, weak, and heavy hearted.

His wife, my step mother, is often delusional, but other times, grief stricken and exhausted from worry. I ache for her pain, as well. For all her drawbacks and shortcomings, she is a human being who shares my father's love, and who centers her world around him. She spends much time in denial, saying she thinks he'll get better, and I haven't the heart to tell her that he won't. Besides, she knows thast he won't get better, she just dosen't want to admit it. Their two single beds are pushed together again, but he no longer reaches for her hand.

Anyone who know me knows that "Harold & Maude" is my favorite movie. I thrive on Maude's love of life & do my best to emulate her whenever I can. Anyone who has seen "Harold & Maude" knows that it is a contoversial, dark humored movie with a cult following. Some folks love the movie, some folks hate it. There are too few explosions-Bubba hates it. Though it ends with Maude commiting a mortal sin, when I look at the persona Ruth Gordon portrays, all she does is forgiven in my book. But to most folk, especially here in the Bible Belt, it isn't my book that counts.

Way back when, before I ever saw the film, my California friends were amazed that it's existence had escaped my notice.

"You, of all people, need to see "Harold & Maude!" my friend Kelly exclaimed. Her husband, Mike, chimed in with a wise "Oh yeah-you need to see this movie."

It was after my disasterous marriage had dissolved & I had gone back to Indiana to drink a lot of liquor in a failed attempt to heal. Restless hormones (a woman in her mid 30's-a great time to be alive), the offer of returning to my old job in California with a raise, the offer of room & board room, reuniting with old friends, aas well as the bad habits I had entertained while out there had brought me back to California dreamin.' My decision to return freaked out my friends & family here in Indiana, fearing that I may be thinking of pursuing my ex. Nah-my California friends despised my ex for the most part. I don't know why I returned other than I needed to get something out of my system...the California dream, I suppose.

I went back to working with the Free Clinic's Rock Medicine at the Bay Area concerts. Siezed the opportunity to dance with Carlos Santana backstage at an Eric Clapton show. Strarted up old and new friendships, ended a few, even found love again, and had my heart broken again, and had my fair share of adventures.

I joined the "Cacaphony Society," and went bowling in ballroom attire, on scavenger hunts throughout San Francisco during Chineese New Year celebrations, attended formal pitch-in dinners, complete with candleabras, in a China Town laundromat and as well as on The Golden Gate Bridge.

I supported myself, and "aimed above morality" as Maude advised, thereby giving myself, something "to talk about in the locker room." As best I could, I lived life to it's fullest.

Then, Mokie Joe, my little brother contacted me asking that I record a few words of love to my father for his surprise 70th birthday party back in Indiana. I paced in circles in the living room of my hovel in Oakland, fighting denial. I was so sure that I had heard wrong-that it was his 60th birthday, not his 70th. I even called a sister for confirmation, and then, paced some more. I looked at my life in California and decided that these adventures had served their purpose, and that there really was nothing else for me there. I gave away my furniture, television, stereo, and water bed. I packed my life into 6 boxes and mailed them back to Indiana, telling my California friend that I was going home to "help my parents die." I put my dog, Cassidy, in a travel cage, and caught a plane home.

Coming home hasbrought me to yet another season of my life. I met Bubba & fell in love for what I hope to be the last time. I want to grow old with this man. And I want to die before he does...

For the last 15 years, "helping my parents die" has been the deepest learning experience yet. Watching Alzheimers slowly ebb it's way into completely smother my Mother's brain has been a heart wrenching phase of my life that still continues. I feel so powerless, useless,and detached.

Watching alcohol ruin my Father's reirement years left me giving up drinking with little effort, and attempting to become an authority figure to him in his weakened state. And now, attempting to ensure that he dies of something other than dehydration, starvation or neglect has become a main focal point of my life.

My Mother no longer suffers, though I cannot be assured that this state of contentment with her life comprised of merely eating and sleeping will continue. So much depends upon the right medication and sedation.

My Father suffers. The best parts of him are almost gone. On a good day, he may tell me that he loves me "so much"...but more often, he is filled with anger and comtempt for everything and everyone around him.

I have always prided myself in the fact that all of my life, I have been extremely adaptable to my environment. Joining the Navy, being posted in 6 different areas of the US, being married to a psycopathic narrcissist for almost a decade and surviving that era, being poor most of the time, suffering migraines every few days, past drinking, partying, and now, sobriety, I have eventually adapted to them all.

Adapting to living in a nursing home may just be the single environment that I will not be able to adjust to when the time comes. I just don't see it. I still have a good 20 or 30 years left before that happens, but when it does comes around, and nursing homes will bursting at the seams with baby boomers and even less qualified & concerned caretakers than they are today, I believe there is nothing wrong in proactively choosing the alternative that Maude chose, albeit in a Hollywood movie. When I become a burden to society and to those who love me, and I have lost the ability to lead any semblence of a quality life in any sense of the word, I do not believe that my loving and forgiving God will disown me for taking the "easy way out." Sure, I am manipulating the Bible to my own questions and desires, but this is what I believe, what I feel in my heart. When I can no longer retain anything that I have learned, when I am "just marking time," I want to proceed into the Hereafter and, I choose to believe, that there is no fire and brimstone awaiting the consequence of that final choice.

But let's not cross that bridge until we come to it. My journey is still, very much in progress.

My father still lives. He breathes, he talks, and he is pissed off most of the time. I think he is pissed because he is still here. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps his anger is the irritability of his wonderful spirit being caught in dying body. Perhaps, I don't have a clue.

Every visit is different. He has an overall desire to please (which I seem to have inherited), and most visits, that desire will enable his daughters to get some food into him. It certainly isn't the quality of the food. One sister reccommended that I taste the food before I try to feed it to him. Pureed grilled cheese sandwich (no whole grain bread availailable, I might add), daily mashed instant potatos with the same daily broth-gravy. Pureed succatash Yeech! He has no appetite to begin with & they send him this mess to slop down? His choking has subsided substantially, but the orders to beat the food beyond recognition remain. A mistake(one of many) in the kitchen brought him regular mandarin oranges out of the kitchen Friday evening. He gloried in the fact that they were not pureed & sent me running to the kitchen for seconds...which they wanted to puree. "No way! I am family. I can feed him whatver! He wants regular tiny sections just as good as pureed don't you think?" "No, here, take these oranges and give them to anyone but Larry, as he can only eat pureed food." It was a silent agreement that she couldn't violate the rules, but was happy dad had eaten something other than ice cream which is the staple of his death's-door diet. Ice cream, pudding, smashed up Lil' Debbie's Swiss Rolls into the goo. Each feeding (for me, anyway) is a minimum 2 hour ordeal. Then, another hour or more finding CNAs to help change him, prepare him for bed, try to get him comfortable & medicated when allowed-when they get to him

The nursing home is overcrowded & under-staffed. All nursing homes are. I understand that. It is the nature of big business to utilize slave labor or the next best thing. All nursing homes are left wanting for quality & quantity of care givers. As sub-standard as the one Dad & Rene are in, it is so much better than those I delivered patients to when I was an ambulance attendant in Oakland. My Mother's nursing home is a few steps up in quality care, but not by much. This is a nation-wide affliction that nobody pays attention to until they are forced to include it in their daily lives. And just like death, one day, most folks will be forced to do just that.

I visited my Mother on Friday. Her Alzheimer's/dementia has left her, in a word, vacant. Literally, this creative writing major, this strong and loving mother of 5, lives with the lights on and nobody home. I must always tell her my name, for I do not believe she remembers me anymore on her bad days, and barely recognizes me on the few good ones. The CNAs call her "Mom," as well, with the best of intentions & I am grateful, but she is understandably confused about who her real kids are. She forgets that I have visited before I can leave the room. But, she is content. Content to have background noise (TVs, staff, cries of other patients, etc). Happy to see me, happy to see me go. Whenever, wherever possible, sleeping sleeping, sleeping.

So, I haven't posted in over a week. I always hoped my blog to be a happy, musically-inclined place to visit & make friends and contact kindred cyber-spirits. So..."happy thoughts, keep thinking happy thoughts.."

Bubba...the love of my life. Kind, supportive, understanding, and going through much of the same thing with his own Mother who suffers from paranoid delusions, and a total lack of her short memory. He took her to her doctor's last week and by the time he got home,(less than a 5 minute drive), she was on the phone demanding that he take her to the doctor, no recollection of the 3 hrs they just spent together seeing the doc, picking up meds, even seeing Bubba at all that day. She needs to go into a nursing home, but understandably, Bubba looks at what his father went through before he crossed over, and sees what my family is going through, and he is procrastinating that ugly reality until he feels that she is a danger to herself.

My family...supportive, loving, caring. My sisters & I are full filling the roles that women have done over the past centuries, right or wrong. Jobs have all been put on hold, and family comes first. It is the "great circle of life," as Ruth Gordon exhaults in "Harold & Maude." Now, we are ones spoon feeding the pablum, changing the diapers, trying to comfort, when no comfort can be found. These past few years have intensified our love for one another. My brothers live a long distance away, but do what they can, when they can. Many families beome enemies going through these inevitable crisises & I believe our familily will persevere and grow in love.

Stress...I exercise, I have lost 40 lbs, and at least 6 dress sizes. I see a wonderful mental health therapist, Cecile, who counsels me in spirit and mind. She really cares about me, calls me a "dear friend that I love..." She has given me strenght and comfort when i need it most.

My job...it has turned out to be a blessing to have a a throw away, dead-end job. I could not contribute to my family had I been in a professional profession. I do not miss my job at all. I miss some of the people that I encountered in the course of my days, but the job? What a grand release! It was a thankless, almost slave-labor job, and the next one, will absolutely, positively have to have at least an air conditioned environment. There is no excuse for the ways factories function in that oppressive, exhausting heat. I would have stayed longer had not life sent me down this particular path, fooling myself into thinking thatr I was doing some good for a few forgotten laborers. I was replaceable. Everybody is. I did a great job, and I didn't steal (which is the norm in vending), and I am not ashamed of anything that I did at all, as I did the best that I could with what I had at the time. I have self esteem problems...I am actively, succesfully working on them.

Self esteem...I purchased some nice clothes in my size. I purchased a little make-up. I can take it or leave it all. I still wear tie-dyes that flirt with their 20th birthdays. I work out. I like myself more than I have in years. I have beaten several addictions that I have never really talked about much in my blog. They no longer afflict me, so they no longer matter. What does matter is that I beat them on my own, one & all. My secret is the company that I keep...that's what cinches the deal... I am happier being straight, kind, giving, and somewhat of a recluse. No parties, no concerts, early to bed and early to rise, and my life is full. No time for drugs or drink. Too busy living my life.

Hey! I gotta go do some tread-heading. I have to stay vital...to my love, my family, myself. I'm doing better than OK. Today.

Yesterday, 5 1/4 miles tread heading for 100 minutes. I feel better than I have felt in years, physically. Now, all my clothes are too big-I hope the baggy look is still somewhat "in," but I don't really care. I hula hoop for 45 mins in the patio, almost every day. If I choose to do so, I can wear the little black dress my Step Mother used to wear in her hey day for that dreaded day...but I am a very pale blonde, with blazingly white (nice) legs & I refuse to wear panty hose...so if I can get it together, I best go shopping...I really hate shopping. I should not be allowed in stores without an escort.

I finished Patricia Cornwell's "Predator," & though I only bought it 'cuz it was a "#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER," I find it a bit tiresome that so many novels these days center around serial killers...wierd. Now that I am jobless, I need to find time to again haunt local libraries...Sommerst Maughm's "The Razor's Edge" ( I think it is Bill Murray's best, underappreciated movie...) I need to go back to the classics...

I found "Spiderman 3" to be a stinker. We have the 2 earlier Spiderman DVD's & upon review, they stink, too...or maybe it is just my present frame of mind. I am prety sure that Bubba & I will go see the latest "Pirates" movie. I am counting on loving it. Will drop hints with theose DVDs ASAP.

I have a full day. Dentist, post office, ga$, both meals w/Dad today...places to go & people to see...and the beat goes on.

I wish that my Daddy weighed more than his 130lbs. Last month, 149 and the month before that 169.

I wish he didn't need liquid Morphine and Haladol. He might have recognized me longer than the 2 1/2 seconds that he knew me last night.

I wish he had not been so out of it. He might of eaten something for me or asked for water.

I wish he wasn't so agitated, even angry. I wish he could get comfortable. I understand that his blood is lacking oxygen, making him restless, but I wish that it wasn't so.

He reaches out to hold his wife's hand, she babbles some delusion about him going out to dinner without her, and he jerks his hand away. He reaches out for her hand, she says nothing, and he angrily jerks his hand away. He reaches out again...after 6 times or so last night, I could not bear to watch anymore, so I left the two of them alone, closed the door, sobbed down the hall, and drove home.

I wish gas was less than $3.60 a gallon & it wasn't 70 miles for me round trip everytime thast I visit. It is the longest 35 mile ride that I can imagine any and every time that I drive it.

I wish I could handle this time with more courage, grace & dignity.

I wish that his response to my "Moon River" and "Tammy" last night had not been a face of distaste and irritation. I hope that there is still music in his head, but I am not so sure, now. He never made a happy or even peaceful facial expression last night, and he jerked his hand out of my own several times.

I wish this was over with.

I wish it wasn't happening at all.

Once, when the family was gathered at Applebee's dining & drinking, he put an arm around my shoulders and said, "Honey, I just wish I could always just be here with my family, enjoying life..." I wish that his wish could come true...

I wish his doctor had not been so accusatory with my angel sister Jan, stating that she just wanted to keep Daddy sedated...she guilt trips herself over his God-complex arrogance, and I say "Yes! I do want to keep him sedated!! What good does it do him or anyone to have him filled with anxiety, anger and fear as his final hours approach?" Said "Dear and Glorious Physician" finally ok'd the Haladol, but refuses to allow a patch that would dry up some of his oral secretions in the morning saying that the patch would only add to Dad's confusion. Would I rather add to his confusion or allow him to drown in his own fluids? I vote confusion, but I don't count. Poor Jan-who needs guilt trips at this point? Don't Doctors take course in Bedside Manners? Who wouldn't want him to die peacefully in his sleep as opposed to dying in the midst of a choking marathon?

I wish I'd just get out of this funk & get back to tread heading, as I always feel better afer exercise. Yet all morning, I have barely been able to summon the strength or determination to get out of bed...

I guess that there is no right or wrong when we are dealing with impending death.

I guess wishes that things were better & easier for me to handle are selfish and futile, at best. Everyone that is involved is just doing the best that they can do with what they have got in the time that they can afford to spend.

These months that we have had with Dad since before his close-call at Christmas have truly been fleeting gifts...I really cannot ask for any more than the reality that I am dealing with every day.

I am so blessed in so many ways. I have a great support system, family, friends, the Stream, Bubba, my K-9 kids...

This is the natural order of things...and I truly believe that when he finally does cross over that he will not be alone, and that his spirit will live on and that I will see him one fine day again at the end of my own journey. He's always been a wonderful father to me...the moon, the stars and the sun. But he does not want me to dwell in sorrow at his passing, but to get on with my life doing the best that I can do. I just wish it wasn't all so hard. But it is.