60 over 24

The movement from the wheelchair to the toilet depleted his strength entirely. He struggled to breathe normally and leaned forward, forearms on his knees, until he gained composure. “I don’t know if I can pull myself out of it this time.” he said. I can’t remember what I said. I hope it doesn’t matter.

Two weeks later, I laid on the couch several feet the temporarily placed bed in the living room. The light from above the kitchen stove scumbled over the contents of the two rooms. Every time he stirred I awoke fully - repeatedly.

The next day at 9:34AM I emailed his blood pressure to myself with my iPhone – I’m not certain why I did this but I found it days later among previously dismissed communications. “60 over 24”

Five hours later, tired from the night before, I closed the door and laid diagonally on my parents’ bed – atop the floral comforter. I like to think I faded to sleep with my father’s fade to death. It was quiet and for both of us, perception slipped away from that perceived.

His death nearly lacked the character of an 'event.' It was just one moment moving to the next - and moving so smoothly that it really could have been any other moment at all. And that is what has changed me most – the striking similarity between that moment and any other since.

Nathaniel woke me. He put his hand on my calf that jutted over the bed’s edge. He shook me slightly and I turned. “He just passed.” he said.

Later he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what words to use.”

His words were perfect and I couldn’t imagine a better person to tell me them. Nathaniel was my older sister’s first child – the first grandchild. I was eleven or twelve years old when he was born and all my life I’ve associated him with youth and potential and life pulled to a new generation.