A coffin and a banana peel walk into the bar...

It happening so quickly, but with so many false starts. With Mama's death, by that Thursday I was prepared. I knew she was failing, her body packing up. Every graft that failed, every trim of skin or bone, every debriding session left us with less of her to cling to. 

This time, it's worse/harder/more uncomfortable/more confusing because my father is conscious and he peps up then fades fast. Today was the appointment with the vascular surgeon. Verdict 'highly unlikely that you'd survive the surgery and the aneurysm will increase with its growth until it ruptures.' it currently sits at 65% change of rupturing. 

Tuesday, we head out to the VA for his second round of chemo and to quiz the oncologist. What is the prognosis, what does chemo plan look like, what will the impact be, if he continues to lose weight like he is, how long until he just ceases to exist, you know, the Chrismukah letter questions. Now that he has been moved over to full-time nursing and off of the rehab - because he refuses to work with pnyscal therapy, we move to self-pay, an expensive learning curve but necessary. 

Afterwards, I make the inevitable appointment for Hospice to be involved. I talk to my uncles, start calling extended family, begin to prepare them. Weirdly, it isn't as wrenching as I thought it would be. I don't want to be right that this particular chapter is approaching, would happily be proven wrong. But it isn't lacerating, like when I had to tell people that James Robert was dying. Or was dead.

In the Vascular surgeon's consulting room, dad is mostly alert.

'So you're telling me I'm standin' at a crossroads and there's the coffin and the banana peel. Either way, I'm just about done.'

I can't help but laugh at the Doctor's expression. 'Sir, this isn't a joking matter.'

'Ma'am, I can assure you I ain't jokin'.' He knows. I know. The Sandman, all 5 years old of him looks up. 'So you're getting ready to die, grandpa? Wow.' He bites his lip inconsternation. 'Mummy, I'm thirsty. May I have some water?'

It's a moment of light relief, a chance for us to reframe the searing moment. I hope there are more of them. I hope I remember.