Page 117 of Woman on the Verge

After dinner, I wheel him back to his room and help Frank use the lift to get him back into bed.

“His lips are dry. He’s probably a bit parched,” Frank says.

He brings over what looks like a lollipop, but there’s a small sponge at the end where the candy would be. He dips the sponge into the glass of water at Dad’s bedside, then places it on Dad’s lips. Dad’s lips manage to purse around the sponge, giving it enough pressure to extract a tiny amount of water.

Merry comes in. She gives him little kisses on his cheek—five, ten, twenty of them.

“Good night, my love,” she says. She strokes his bald head. I stare at the constellations of sunspots on it, start to count them, stop when I get to thirty.

I give him a kiss on his other cheek—just one.

“I’ll be right upstairs,” I tell him, in case he’s wondering, in case he’s worried about dying without us nearby.

“I’ll be here until the hospice nurse comes,” Frank says.

This is the first night a hospice nurse will stand watch through the night. Meaning this is the first night they think he might die.

Merry and I go up the stairs together. My legs are heavy. It feels as if I am wearing boots made of concrete.

“The nights are so hard,” she says. “I hate thinking of him alone down there.”

“He won’t be alone tonight.”

“Should I be sitting with him all night? Is that what I should do?”

“I think you should get some sleep,” I tell her. “Or try to.”

She sighs. I walk her to her room, pull back the sheets on her bed, and encourage her to get in. She acquiesces, sitting up straight against the headboard, eyes wide open and alert, the eyes of someone bracing for impact.

“Do you want me to stay in here with you?”

I could sleep next to her, in my dad’s spot.

She shakes her head. “No, no. Thank you. You get some sleep too.”

“The nurse knows to come get us if—”

“Yes,” she says. “I told them.”

With that, I go to my room, quite sure I won’t be doing any sleeping.

Waiting for death is a lot like waiting for birth—health-care providers bustling about, taking vitals, tracking numbers. There is the anticipation, the uncertainty, the mystery. Then eventually, the agony, the gore, the release, the beauty. Nobody can say exactly when he’ll die. “When he’s ready,” they say. They—the doctors—said the same when I was at the end of my pregnancies—“She’ll come when she’s ready.” There is so much surrender required.

I have several text messages waiting for me on my phone—a couple from Kyle, a few from Elijah.

Kyle: Just checking in. How’s your dad?

Kyle: Girls are in bed. Hope all is ok there

Elijah: Thinking of you nonstop

Elijah: I can come to you if that would help in any way

Elijah: Even if we just sit in my car and you cry, that’s fine with me

I respond to Kyle first:

Things here are heavy. They say he could pass any time now. Thanks for holding down the fort.

---