End Game

Over the last week, Dad's been getting worse. He started slipping on Father's Day, when he asked me why I was coming over so early - at 5PM. It progressed through non sequitors - telling Mom that the stereo remote also controls the pump to empty the washbasin - on to conviction that he had to go somewhere to claiming that he had to go home (he WOULD NOT believe us when we told him he was home) to not recognizing us to where he is today: in a coma.

This is, I'm told, typical of this kind of situation - going on a trip is how some people frame their coming death, and the coma is, frankly, a blessing for him and for us.

But he's still dying by inches, and there's nothing I can do.