Change

I've been thinking of Shelly's Prometheus Bound. In college, I wrote my senior thesis on Prometheus. The climax of the epic poem is when Prometheus--condemned by the gods to be chained to a rock where the eagle comes each day to eat his liver which grows again at night--transcends his rage and resentment and utters the words, "Let no living thing suffer pain."

This morning, my step-mother became non-responsive. At times, her breathing was a rattle, the so-called 'death rattle.' We gave her the pill that the nurse said would ease congestion. The nurse stopped by. She increased the frequency and dosage of the morphine and the atavan that we were giving my step-mother. When she left, she indicated that she probably wouldn't be back tomorrow, as my step-mother wouldn't last the night. I asked the nurse what would be the next stage. She said that there would be more and more time in between breaths, and then there wouldn't be another breath.

Her breathing became more and more labored. We kept a vigil of sorts, always someone there, holding her hand. I took a shower, shaved my head. Made myself something to eat. Fielded a phonecall from someone soliciting donations to the Special Olympics who, upon being told that our family was gathered around the bedside of my mother who was dying, didn't skip a beat with her pitch. Fuck the Special Olympics. Spent some time sitting in the bedroom with my step-mother and her daughter. My step-mother's breathing was slow. I was lying in bed next to her, holding her hand. I had an idea.

I grapped my camera, and took this picture...


Her breathing became slower and slower. My father came in. My step-sister went to get her daughter. We gathered around. I was watching her nightgown where it fell over her abdomen. Her breaths were coming farther and farther apart, but that little part of her kept moving. I think it would be about where her Qi would be.

And then, it was still. It was like watching the sun set. It's there, it's there, it's there, and then it isn't there. All four of us were right there. We said goodbye, silently or aloud.

Then it was time for phone calls. I called the hospice service. I called my brother. I went through the phonebook calling farflung relatives.

I called the funeral home. Funeral home said call again when hospice arrived, and they'd be by to pick up the body. Earlier, the nurse had said that all of us should go into a room and close the door when they removed my step-mother. It's a mechanical process, and it would be better if that wasn't our last memory. The body bag.

Nuff said.

So my Dad and I sat in one bedroom. My step-sister and step-niece sat in the other bedroom. Outside we heard the business.

That's when my father popped the question. He told me that he wasn't sure how he would be able to manage here alone. Since I was planning on moving back here anyway, he asked me to stay on. I was non-commital, although I made clear that I was going to be in Michigan (at Inferno) on the first two weeks of September.

Huh.

This is not the time to be making decisions like that, but yeah. I think I'm moving home. Earlier tonight, taking a walk around, I went into the garage and tried to imagine how it would do as a dungeon.

"Dad, this is Greg. I'm going to show Greg something out in the garage for a while. We'll be there if you need me. Call me on my cell phone though. Don't come out. Alright?"

Anyway. Don't need to make those decisions tonight.