Lasts

I drove home to see you on my 39th birthday. No matter what the family told me, nothing could prepare me for how you looked, death creeping across your face. I laughed while holding back tears as you looked at me and said as if everything was normal, “I thought we got rid of you!” An old joke shared for the last time.

I was there as they unloaded you from the ambulance, the last car ride you would take alive, and took you to your room. The last room you would spend time in.

This is a period of lasts.

Willie and I horsing around.

Willie and I at my 8th-grade graduation.

I sat with you as you ate in the dining room. I remember the last meal we shared. You ate a few bites of turkey, mashed potatoes, and veggies. As you struggled to move your small plate, I asked if you were trying to turn your plate or if you wanted pie. You looked me dead in the eye and said clearly with all seriousness, “Pie!” I quickly shuffled the plates so you could have your wish. You ate as much dessert as you did the main course. I appreciated your priorities.

On Thanksgiving day, I sent you whiskey slush in a small Tupperware. I smiled as the cousins described how you enjoyed your last drink – a drink you had prepared for years for us to enjoy at Thanksgiving. This is one of your favorite holidays. You stayed for this last celebration.

As the days went on, you interacted less and less. Sleeping most of the time, your eyes matted and mouth crusty. I didn’t realize how much we clean ourselves until I witness someone who can’t. I get a warm washcloth and do the best I can to wash your face.

Mostly, I sit with my hand on your leg and just be with you as you labor to shuffle off this mortal coil. This is your show, I am just along for the ride. You helped me find me way in this world, now I wait as you find your way out of it.

Willie and I at my master’s graduation.

Willie and I on my wedding day.

While you aren’t my father, you are the closest thing I have had to one. You are biologically my uncle but in my heart, I am losing a dad. The man who shared his love of computers with me, helped me learn to drive, who tried to teach me to water ski, and who walked me down the isle when I married. You were there for so many of my firsts. Now, I sit with you while you do your lasts.

I have never sat with someone as they died.

Your lasts are another of my firsts we do together.