In the fall, it took all of Dad’s energy to get up and walk to the kitchen, where he would lean against the counter to catch his breath. No it takes all of his energy to merely stand. I’m watching him catch his breath by leaning against the table as he tries to get it together enough to make it down the hallway to the bedroom.

A matter of pride, or wanting to not be given a hard time for being unable to do it himself? The pride has broken down over the past year and he takes much more charitable help than he would have before. Surely he realizes he just can’t make do on his own, but is still unable to come to terms with the consequences of that.

Earlier I watched as snot collected in his moustache. Eventually he reached over to get a napkin, but merely moved it to a more handy location for when he later had the energy to blow his nose.

I’m fairly certain his body is on the brink of failure. He won’t last another six months at this rate. Ten minutes later fluids are still working their way up and dripping on the table as he takes deep breath after deep breath, his normal breathing pattern, still unable to fully stand for the walk down the hall.

I’m told his sleeping pattern has been extremely erratic lately. It’s clear he rarely bothers to get dressed and probably hasn’t bathed for months. Sores form on his skin and chunks are flaking off. His skin is stretched only around his bones and I’m still sometimes shocked by how small a bicep really is without anything but bone. It doesn’t seem appropriate to call it a bicept, but what instead?

No bladder control likely remains and he spends most of the day sitting on a towel. After fifteen minutes of standing he moans, and his glasses fall to the floor. He sits back down in the chair, defeated.

A few minutes later he mutters an ‘alright and reaches down for his glasses and puts them back on. He breathes for minutes, and gargles some phlem.

I go upstairs to take inventory of my clothes I keep here and get one of the camp sleeping bags set up on the couch. I meander a bit and return to the dining room about fifteen minutes after he picked up his glasses. His head is down on the table resting under his arm. The sound of me sliding the rocking chair over startles him back into his last position.

Twenty minutes after picking up his glasses he lights a cigarette. I crack open another can of pop. Caffiene free diet coke no less, but the taste comforts me, as it always has.

When I was young my father was often sitting in this rocking chair, looking out the window over the field he built. I imagine he needs the table close now for support of himself and to keep the ashtray and drink near.

It’s been about an hour now since he first tried to get up. I’m going to go watch some television, my favortie Maine pastime.