Dad comes home tomorrow (or the next day)

My brothers and I decided to bring dad home today. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. That’s up to the medical professionals. They have to transfer him from doctor care to hospice care. End-of-life treatment.

We’re hoping to get a little of him back before he’s gone. Being at home might help. Listening to his cheesy old records and waking up to horrible wallpaper he and our mom chose themselves can’t hurt.

Today I asked the hospice nurse to drop by. She’s the only medical professional he trusts these days. When we suggest a possible course of action, he asks: “Have you talked to Erica?”

He’s not even in her care at this point. She can’t make decisions for him until he is. But she’s answered every call and has visited him in the nursing home twice. A truly dedicated person with deep feelings, maybe too deep for the work she’s doing.

When I told one of my brothers she was recommending more medication, less treatment, he pointed out that her role is to be a gateway. An angel of death of sorts. True. But dad’s at that gate. He’s not fighting it.

Radiation’s upset and confused him, so tonight I’m preparing his living room for a hospital bed. I dug out the records he loved. We’ll be hearing a lot of Ethel Merman around here for a while.

Hopefully that will bring him back a bit. It may kill me, but I survived it in my growing up years.

Just so you know, Ethel Merman is the best singer ever, because, according to dad:

“She can peal the paint off the back wall of the theater without a mic.”

That’s singing.

I also have my trombone with me. He paid for all the lessons, so he can’t complain when I start jamming along with Ethel.