"A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist." . --Stewart Alsop
My mom opened the door to his room but I was the first to enter. My uncle was tucked neatly in bed as if he were a package. His face looked relaxed. I placed my hand on his forehead and it was stone cold. My aunt started to sob.....
My uncle was taken to the hospice facility last Monday. He became noticeably weaker, deteriorating a bit more each day. By the end, he no longer had the strength to talk, keep his head up, or even sip from a straw so we fed him bits of water and lemonade with a needleless syringe directly into his mouth.
On Saturday he was unresponsive and ran a fever. The hospice center called my aunt later that evening, just hours after visiting him, and told her to come by. Informing her that my uncle had passed.
Our backyard morning glories
"I guess I was just hoping for a miracle," My aunt said to my cousin over the phone. "I really was."
I offered to spend the night yesterday because I knew my aunt wouldn't want to be in their house alone--too many photographs and reminders of him when the death is still so raw.
It was around 4 o'clock Sunday morning when I wrote the words to this blog post (obviously I couldn't sleep). Even though the full moon was still visible, the sparrows chirped and sang outside my window anyway. Lying in bed in my aunt and uncle's spare bedroom, it became quite apparent that whether I was ready or not....a new day was starting.