I sit next to him as he sleeps. Merry sits at the foot of the bed, one hand on his ankle.
“He’s almost always sleeping now,” she says.
“How’s his eating?”
She shrugs. “Not great. We’re sticking to yogurt, oatmeal, soft stuff.”
The muscles he needs to swallow are atrophying like all the other muscles in his body.
Frank comes in from the back deck, where he was taking his dinner break. His face brightens when he sees me, and he says, “Well, howdy ho.”
He gives me his assessment, repeating some of what Merry has already told me.
“His spasticity is worse,” he says. “See how his muscles are all tight, how his knees and elbows are bent like that? It’s common with brain damage.”
When I take my dad’s hand, it is in a clenched fist. I hold the fist. He stirs.
“Hey, Daddy.”
His eyes blink open. It must take a while for me to come into focus, but he eventually says “Hi” in his soft, strained voice.
“I’m going to finish making dinner,” Merry says, standing from the bed, giving his leg a pat.
“And I’ll give you two some privacy,” Frank says.
That leaves just Dad and me.
“You have pretty eyes,” he says, looking at me. He’s always said I have pretty eyes. As I’m about to thank him, he says, “I see four of them.” I’m not sure if he’s serious until he laughs, and then I laugh, grateful for his ability to still joke.
I lie next to him, my head on his bony shoulder. He stares up at the ceiling.
“What do you see?” I ask.
Vision issues, even blindness, are common as CJD progresses. It is truly the worst disease I have ever heard of.
“It’s raining,” he says with a wistful smile.
I don’t question him. I just say, “I love rain.”
“Me too,” he says.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Elijah, again.
You okay, beautiful?
I put it back in my pocket.
“Dad?”
His eyes don’t flick to me. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, at the rain.
“Daddy? I have to tell you something.”
He continues staring.
“I’m having an affair,” I whisper.
It feels like confession, my dad the all-forgiving priest, a messenger of God on earth.