The light is slowly rising, no sun yet. I continue to sleep only when exhausted but unable to feel the exhaustion.

Christy felt bad about taking my Dad’s bed as we’ve been trying to get him to sleep in the spare bed, which was mine. I also have my old waterbed from when I was a kid that we are years behind on getting rid of. But the couch, I spent so many years of nights on this couch.

Dad continues to cough every few minutes. Yesterday we commented on how his coughs aren’t as bad as they used to be. Its because he is too dehydrated to produce the phlem.

Perhaps today I’ll start digging through the paperwork to get things in order. I’ve wanted to avoid doing it in front of him but it probably doesn’t matter.

Yesterday I sat on the rock pile in Dad’s field and cried in between phone calls. I know why it matters, but I don’t think I could ever convey to someone its importance.

Deep down in our memories, so much stews. I considered my life as having started when I dropped out of high school and started to take personal responsibility. That is a bit of a set up.

A lot happened before then, not the least of which was before high school when my parents were still married. This house is basically a tomb from that time. On the surface, the television is new and the house has been lived in. Yet every drawer continues snippets from fifteen years ago.

I don’t know about that. What do I want to do with that? Leaving it a time of innocence and tree fort building works so well.

Everyone knows they’re going to die some day. Sometimes we acknowledge we’re going to have to face it eventually. That facing it is usually a ‘read a book and make plans’ sort of reality though. When the question is if it is in days or weeks, it is of a different kind.

Today went well at the doctors office and we all seem to be on the same page, acknowledging that he is dieing and we can only support him in that process. Pretending we were satisfying someone elses doubts is quickly water under the bridge.

Christy and I still can’t get him to bed. This will be the third night. She tells him she is worried about him falling but I think we all still wonder if a good nights sleep in a bed will help him. I got an office chair from the grandparents in the hopes that we could wheel him to his room.

A nasty dejavu strikes me. I don’t have a good feeling about the night. I’ve been feeling suddenly underprepared for his death, despite feeling quite prepared for and at terms with his situation. I don’t know I will get to.

I fell asleep after an hour of Law and Order. Dad never left the table. He looks as confused as he is, wide eyed and not really here all the time. He talks slow, like Vernal. He’s definitely there though. I don’t think talking is easy. That is, just speaking seems like it robs him of oxygen and wears him out for a moment.

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.

The 124 is the post-light rail remnants of the old 174, one of metros worst routes. I watch the boarded up brick buildings go by in the rain, lit by dismal streetlight. South Seattle.

The new light rail station brings me to the new Rapid Ride A line. We all board, I assume it is headed South. The light rail starts runing about now.

Telling R’s family about how I got here from Maine is rote. I don’t mention being dragged along or M’s life schedule, slipping out every year. Maine isn’t the secret past, it is still a part of me, but the circumstances remind me how much has changed; gained and lost.

I told R that was new favorite first date, replacing that with Z. I tipped my hat to the personal issues in that being the bar but let dead horses lay.

I’m headed home to Maine early tomorrow to deal with my father. I’m missing the DST training for ARC and quite disappointed about that, but not upset. I’m somewhat fearful of not knowing which action is going to spark the violent reaction I expect to be inevitable. Blah.

I came home to a bit of a Dear John from L. I haven’t even read it. At least Z’s email was brief and concise. Ah, fine.

I need to occupy myself for the next three hours until the bus comes. Reading about wet brain syndrome and medical incompetence sounds fun.

Canada was awesome though. So whatever, world, fuck you.

The alarm goes off at 6am. No terribly early, perhaps for a Saturday. I did the math a little late and ended up hanging out with L before realizing I was only getting a few hours of sleep tonight.

I’ve been talking to J about “adults” and “women” versus “girls.” I talked to M about it the other day and she retorted that girls lived our lifestyle while woman lived… the American dream? the option presented by television?

Yet I’ve pondered. I’ve attached myself to a lifestyle that seemed, calm, and unpretentious. Yet, more and more I feel like it isn’t. Balance to be found? again? Does what Z have to say matter these days? I told Mom that I didn’t expect a response, but I wouldn’t be surprised by one. The expectation is more of an attitude than anything else.

I feel eager to build something today. In contrast to that excitement, however foolhardy, everything about Z feels, well, feels like there just isn’t any content. Thats reasonable, she’s too stubborn to be happy.

In closing, I just had a dream that H and I visited my the old Haydrian office. Except it was a different building. We were going because they hadn’t paid the rent in five months, but somehow they were still there. I found Phil there, asleep leaning against a wall. The secretary was there, her name escapes me at the moment. We were going to leave with an old black powder rifle, but I found some device that lead me to what I assumed was gold in a cabinet. So strange.

(77) from your cell phone;
(78) from your email address book

Done. And now?

M and I took a walk and discussed the situation with L, particularly my agreement to not talk to her anymore. Agreement? Statement? It was good to have the opportunity to vent to someone other than J, doubly because I won’t talk to J again for a few days. There is definitely absurdity in acting for months on assumptions about where someone stands, more so when it’s based on a single conversation. I suppose that if I didn’t care I wouldn’t bother. This relationship continues to underscore the importance of communication and the difficulty when there isn’t any.

Closing a door leaves much less to question than yelling out an open one into the dark.