Bro

That's what my mother always called my dad. Everyone, including myself, always found it hilarious because would you ever picture this woman using such urban vernacular?

I didn't think so.

I wonder if that will be the first word he hears when he passes to The Other Side and is greeted by my mother's perennially smiling face. It is breaking my heart to tell you this, dear readers, but I am afraid that moment may be upon us.

Last week my dad had his third stroke. The first two caused some vision loss and some general mental cloudiness, but the most recent one claimed his speech and his ability to swallow. The first five days in the hospital were absolute torture, for him and for us. He tried to speak, but he just couldn't produce any sounds that made sense. Once I leaned over and jokingly asked him, "Are you in there, Rex?" A sly grin spread slowly across his face, and I knew he was desperately trying to crack a joke. "Doubtful," would have been his probable response. Or perhaps, "That's not the first time I've been asked that question."

While his speech deficit frustrated him, his inability to swallow scared the hell out of us. What were we going to do? Buy a few more days with an NG tube? Give him a permanent feeding tube? We knew he definitely didn't want that. Bring him home and watch him starve to death? The options were all unpleasant, to say the least. Then, last Saturday, he started to swallow. It looked like good ol' Rex had cheated death once again.

He left the hospital a couple of days ago and entered a short-term rehab facility to regain some strength before we brought him back home. That was our hope anyway, but things have taken a turn for the worse. He spends most of his days sleeping, and he has no appetite at meal times. We are lucky if we can get him to take five bites of anything. My sisters visited him tonight, and they said they weren't sure if he was even aware of their presence. The doctor at the rehab center talked to my sisters tonight about providing Rex with what he called "comfort care" instead of rehabilitation. I think you and I both know what that means.

So tomorrow I will take my father's white temple jacket to the dry cleaner, and I will buy him a fresh new pair of garments. I will spend hours looking through all of our family photo albums, culling the nicest pictures to display at the funeral. Most importantly, I will visit my dad and hold his hand while I still can. I will tell him to say hello to mom and a few other family members I have never met but have grown to love through doing family history work. I will ask him to put in a good word for me when he gets to The Other Side. I will tell him how much I love him, and that it has been a privilege to be his child. And finally I will tell him that taking care of him these last few months was no burden. It was the most precious and sacred experience of my life.