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Cetywa Powell |
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New Jersey man San Francisco. Summer. Back a few years. Last memories of my father. Horrible. Horrible. My oldest brother's wedding-- Cause to unite the family for the first time in twelve years. A plane north from smog-town into the bay area greeted by my sister who will take me to meet the man two hours later stomach churning waiting in my sister's living-room for the doorbell to ring for my father to be on the other side. Nervous conversation intermittent glances at the door sudden itching on my right hand Stress levels: acutely high The door-bell. The silence. Then the meeting. what should I have said to a dying man what should I have done other than stare other than swallow the shock of his physical deterioration other than cry later that night alone 'cuz to see the defeat the self-destruction the deterioration of a parent is mind-numbing. The little things first the dentures. no shock there. just neglected teeth over a span of forty years turned brown from alcohol and stomach acid. The rot was beyond repair "Everything must go," the family dentist said. 'It's a clearance sale for teeth." next, the not so little things the slightly paralyzed right arm (remnants from a minor stroke) the slight limp (a fall he took when he was drunk or maybe the street was badly lit) a problem with his right eye (again, the stroke) But then the symptoms. Jesus, the symptoms. Yellow, murky eyes (alcoholism) Trembling hands (alcoholism) Swollen ankles (alcoholism) Diapers (alcoholism) He was 63. Aside, the exponential deterioration is explained my mother gives us the low-down. said the vomiting was worse not just confined to the bathroom now it was at the dinner-table, the computer, anywhere. said the loss of bladder control was over a one-year period said the diapers were necessary to save face. My sister, a registered nurse, nods at the sound of diapers good call my brothers and I are mute. What do you say? Really? to a disappointed and dying alcoholic who knew his time had come. who had taken a psychological dive when he penned the words "I know they've been good times but I can't remember any." What do you say? Back in smog-town. City of angels. drenched in summer heat I think about what's gonna happen next. Maybe-- the call will come in the middle of the night to say he's vomiting blood. to say he's choked on his own vomit. to say… He's dead. He had a stroke. When? Eleven p.m. At the dinner table. At home. Alone. To say… The paramedics found his body still warm, found something in his throat. A stroke. Or choking. Autopsy's not out on that one. To say... (my brother's shocked voice over the phone..."I don't know how to say this...I just got home and found him at the table... with his head back... ") To say... He died. My God, he died. Alone. |