This is meant to be a related piece to "15 Things You Find in Your Dad's Hospice Room" and "15 Things You Find When You Clean Out Your Dad’s Apartment".
- Tell yourself you can panic later (you'll likely never find the time to, but it'll help)
- Wear a mask because he's immunocompromised (and besides, you've been out trying to live a life which means you could've caught something)
- Turn on the Olympics because he can't use a remote anymore and no one has helped him (besides, it's always on these days and he at least used to enjoy it)
- Practice your sanitized answers to his questions (he won't remember them, but no need to alarm him about in his life, your life, or the world for even a moment)
- Try not to be in the way of the nurses (you'll fail)
- Sit on the bed because there is no where else to (and realize your arm is resting against his urine jug)
- Worry that his bed should be alarmed when he gets up to go to the bathroom (he makes it there on his own, but needs help on the return journey)
- Hope a doctor will have time to talk to you before you can't stand it anymore (they won't)
- Call your out-of-town brother and baby nephew so they can see your dad (your dad will forget about your nephew as soon as the baby goes out of frame, but for a few moments you'll hope it matters)
- Sit in silence after the call ends (he'll break it eventually by asking after your brother)
- Think over all the ways he got here (and ponder if you contributed to his downward spiral)
- Pick at your cuticles so you have something else to focus on (they may bleed)
- Count all the layers of blood you can see (I got up to four)
- Try to be in the moment because you don't know how many you have left with him (I failed)
- Leave and wonder if it'll be the last time
(Prompt by me)
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