Fever Day 12
My dad is dying. He's been dying for a long time—many years. As long as I've known my husband, and longer. We've had so many years of "who knows if this is his last Christmas," except, those years all seem kind of silly now. We know this will be his last Christmas. If he makes it to Christmas. Things have gone down hill over the last year. He sees the end coming. It scares him. His disability embarrasses him. He's only 58.
He's had a fever for 12 days now. Low-grade, most of the time, I think. His doctor wants him to go to the ER where he can get some IV antibiotics and steroids. He won't go. He's always been stubborn about going to the doctor, especially to the hospital. But now, for the first time, I can understand why. He doesn't want to die in a hospital. That's been long-established. He wants to die at home. With his cats and his wife, and after having said goodbye to his kids. If he goes to the ER and they hook him up to an IV... well, if his time is fast-approaching, he might die in the hospital. He could check out AMA. But what if he doesn't even get the chance? He knows he's not long for this world. And it'll be a cold day in hell before he risks dying in such a cold, sterile environment with nurses crowding around like he's some exhibit to be poked and prodded and made a spectacle of.
I understand why he doesn't want to go. But I worry that in not going, he's sealing his fate. Maybe we could have a few more months if he can just be treated for whatever it is that his body is fighting right now. Maybe he can meet his granddaughter. We're almost there. He's going to hang on as best he can. He wants to meet her so badly. But if some antibiotics could strengthen his grip for a while, I wish he'd get them.
I saw a picture the other day of myself, some of my siblings, and my parents. It was taken in 2014. We're all smiling, and it looks like we all mean it. Dad is wearing a hat. That used to be his signature. Seeing Dad in a hat fills me with joy and nostalgia. It embodies his youth in my mind. And his smile touched his eyes. I didn't realize until I saw a more recent picture that it doesn't do that very much anymore. My mom's face was so young, smooth with youth. Except where her eyes crinkled with her grin, but it doesn't age her. Twelve years has taken so much from my parents. That photo was pre-oxygen for Dad. Post diagnosis, but before he'd been disabled by it. Pre-heart disease, brain tumor, and lung cancer for Mom. They were a little more than 12 years older than I am now in that picture.
My parents mean the world to me. There is very little in this world that I wouldn't do for them. Seeing their lives deteriorate has been hard. Not being able to stop it from happening has been harder. But I've done what I can to at least give them decent living conditions. Or, for Dad, dying conditions. I'm not ready to say goodbye. And a 12-day fever has me absolutely trembling.