During a past in-law health crisis, I read Steinbeck’s East of Eden. After a few days I noticed a voice, not my own, narrating the struggle of the human condition in my head. Days of witnessing the drama unfold, caused me to consider how Steinebeck would characterize the relationships between family members. Would he describe them with the disgust as an exhausted narrator, or would he portray them so the reader might become more sympathetic, or perhaps the characters would serve as mere instruments of pity.

This time, I’m reading David Sedaris. I enjoy the momentum of both writers, but Sedaris writes with a refreshing bluntness that emphasizes the acute balance of absolute insanity coupled with despair. I process fucked-upness with a grain of salt because the madness is seldom difficult to identify with anymore, and it is quickly congealing into the artificial well preserved flavor of normal.

The echo of Sedaris’s voice tolling around in my head makes the powerlessness more palatable, though it will never taste good.

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The business of enabling death is complicated. There is the legal side, the physical side and the compassionate side. By middle age, most of us have become acquainted with depressing terms such as living wills, and do not resuscitate (DNRs) orders. On the face of things, they seem to be straight-forward documents. If only it were really so.

In the case of the DNRs, there are levels to be considered. There is the meat and potatoes version that withholds everything. Food, water, artificial life support, antibiotics etc. There is also a tailored version in which you choose which specifically which comforts are to be extended in patient care and which are to be withheld. You might ask, what is the difference? In some instances, withholding hydration or nourishment, does not expedite the process of dying, it only makes it more uncomfortable, as the stomach acid causes pain while attempting to dissolve the lining. Some antibiotics, do not prolong death, but increase patient comfort. Pain medications can relax the body, alleviating the struggle for breath.

All situations are unique. Question your physician extensively before selecting the option that best meets the intentions of the patient for whom you are advocating. Projection is easy, but interpreting the will of the declining is not.

Since my FIL was stable, we returned home Monday evening to attend to personal matters, wash clothes, and check on Satan’s evil minions (the four-legged ones). I was searching the closet for appropriate attire if or perhaps when it becomes necessary to plant my FIL. I smiled as I recalled the last occasion I wore my black suit.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I lack awareness of all things fashionable. I favor functionality over stylishness. You can’t climb a kitchen cabinet in a dress or scale a fence, so I have little use for feminine attire. In the interest of pragmatism, I keep a black pant suit in the closet, just in case. Fortunately, in case means happy celebrations, as well as, necessary evils.

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I last wore the suit to my mate’s aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding celebration. Fifty years. It’s difficult to comprehend spending half a century with the same person, especially since I haven’t been alive that long. Having donned business casual for the celebration of life, it is only appropriate the pendulum should be dictated by gravity to swing in the opposite direction.

After issuing congratulations to the aunt and uncle, we made an impromptu decision to visit my brother unannounced.

As we approached the door, my brother walked out, and said in an stiff tone, “Can I help you?”.

Not one to ignore a tense vibe, I presumed we came to visit at a bad time. I continued to approach with the intent of speaking and departing quickly. I said something to the effect of being in town, and thought I would say hello but since it seemed inconvenient, we would be leaving.

Upon recognizing my voice, my brother’s face relaxed and he smiled. “Ah, shit! I didn’t recognize you all dressed up. I can’t see as well when I wear my glasses. I thought you guys were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Come on in and visit.”

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It feels weird selecting appropriate attire for a service that isn’t yet necessary. I don’t think the boy scouts were referring to funerals, when they coined the motto about the importance of preparedness. So much for being prepared. Wednesday AM we return to wait.

Yet another laborious journey south to accomplish great things has proved utterly fruitless. What was supposed to an opportunity to expunge the in-law’s home of extraneous artifacts and distribute family treasures, has evolved into an extended stay in the hospital waiting room.

Hours were wasted in committee meetings, pacing and sighing. Little accomplished aside from pissing off all the wives who were expected to abandon their personal pursuits in lieu of sitting in a circle to watch grown men think. Eventually, the thinking and pile making was interrupted by a medical emergency and an SUV convey was dispatched to the hospital, complete with passing on the right, and excessive speeding.

The inertia which has plagued my in-law’s lives, also plagues their deaths. Rather than bore you with extraneous medical details, I’ll abbreviate. We are at the hospital waiting for my father-in-law to die. This waiting, waffling, and pacing, is excruciating, just like one would expect it to be. The things which are uncontrollable are many, and the things over which we have influence are few, but still require extensive arbitration. If this is a democracy, then why does the weight of one man’s vote count more than the other three?

I detest the hospital clusterfuck. I don’t judge the mourning or coping technique of the others. We all function differently. Under the circumstances, I am impressed that most are functioning at all. The deterioration of his health in the past month is sobering. I hurt for nieces who are experiencing the loss for the first time. I hurt for my husband, who can’t comprehend how quickly time slips through our fingertips, and the importance of not taking presence for granted. I hurt for the Mister’s brother’s who are stumbling over themselves with great efforts to accomplish little, and I hate the idea that my FIL could be suffering.

I’ve contemplated the situation long enough achieve a form of closure. I am the lucky one…except for the self-awareness as I wait for the others to catch up with me.

Providing endless excruciating details isn’t the best method for describing all experiences. Details omitted reveal more about the quality of the interaction. I am seldom at a loss for words, but often at a loss of documentation. I’ve begun noticing the richer the experience, the less I rely upon pictures to stimulate memory. Frequently, they only serve as stored megabytes of nothingness. They never adequately frame the context of the moment, nor do they capture the musty smell of fallen leaves, or the constant trickle of the mountain as the water oozes form its crevices.

I have no documentation of the visit with meno, only photos of the weather which did not plague us until the day of her departure. After weeks of sub-freezing temperatures, the sun had mercy upon our hiking plans and made a hospitable appearance for two entire days.

A quality of a good comfortable friendship, is the ease with which you can relax in the presence of one another. Pjs (hers), bed-head (mine) and a taciturn agreement that dialogue is completely unnecessary prior to consuming the first cup of coffee or tea.

There is little wine remaining, a few cookie crumbs, and empty water bottles to be put away. The fraidy cat, who resided under the sofa for two days is making regular appearances at the water bowl. The attitude afflicted cat who had a territorial dispute with meno, is still looking for a warm place to sleep. The television is turned on for the first time in three days, my mate has returned home, and female camaraderie is returning to the west coast.