This was written on September 17, 2010.

Death has a smell. Supposedly it is sweet. 

I’ve been around death before, but I don’t know the smell. I wonder if I’ll recognize it when it’s time.

Today, my father sleeps. His body is weary. His eyes are so heavy. He must rest. He fights it in fits and stops. Calls out. Why? Why? Why? Why do I keep sleeping?

Don’t fight it, I say. You are tired. Your body is ravaged. Let it heal.

He gives in. Sleep wins.

I watch from a chair placed at the foot of his bed. With full view of him — his closed eyes, his shallow breathing — I sit. I wait. I wonder. I hope. I listen. I wander. I cry. I write.

I take out my phone. Snap a photo. Will I ever be able to look back on it? I don’t know, but I want it just in case. Death is scary and peaceful all the same.

He rallies. He falls. Is this our last laugh? I never know. It will happen as it meant to and there isn’t anything I will say or do that can make that any different. 

Control fools us into thinking we can make things different than they are. Control is for fools. It only makes us think we are in charge. There is so much that is out of our hands. Why can’t I get that through my thick skull? 

It’s hard to not hold too tight and protect what it is yours. It’s instinctive. 

It’s best to make choices that are yours to make, take control when you actually have a say, follow your heart, gut, instinct. Trust yourself. Love yourself no matter what. Forgive, too, despite your flaws, failings and obvious imperfections.

When it’s my day to sit in the hospital alone, it is easier to find peace, quiet and time to say the words that flood my thoughts. I didn’t think I had anything to say. My mind was blank until now. But together and alone we find our way to each other today.     

Did I unpack the bags I lug around everywhere I go and put all the contents neatly away? No. That isn’t going to happen today or any day, I suppose. I don’t think I even carried the bags into the hospital with me. There isn’t space in this tiny room.

We talk about his suit — the one he’ll wear the day of his funeral. He trusts me to pick out the right shirt. He explains where he put the shoes I bought him. They are in a bag so dust won’t settle on them. You would never have found them if I didn’t tell you, he says. I would have, I assure him, it would have just taken a little longer. It’s an opening for a little familiar banter between us. Would I find the shoes or wouldn’t I? But the pain medication, the nausea drugs and perhaps the quiet that surrounds our time together allows that moment to pass. We sit in silence instead.Inner peace isn’t as elusive as I think. I have my father’s concrete head. Stubborn. Settle down. Stay in the moment. Don’t dwell. Stop rushing. Just wait. Look. Listen. Let go. For goodness sakes, let go.

The nausea overcomes him. Still, the vomit that never seems to come, is unexpected. We are both stunned by the intrusion. He panics. I call for the nurse. I’m hurried out. The pacing starts. A gentle hand and some kind words in the hallway assure me the interruption won’t be long. Thank you, Melinda.

When I return, he sits on his bed like a king. He is clean. The bowl of chicken noodle soup before him seems so big now. His body is diminishing. I see him diving into a piping hot bowl of spaghetti but only in my mind.

Thank God for nurses, he says. I agree.

Once the soup hits his lips, it momentarily whets his appetite. When I’m alive again, I become a vegetarian, he declares. I don’t know if you noticed, but you are alive now, I counter. I could be a vegetarian, he tells me. I don’t bother to mention that the broth he’s eating is made from chicken.

After lunch we sit again. I’m glad I moved to North Carolina. We got to spend a lot of time together, I tell him. Me, too, he says before emotion overwhelms him.

He sends me out to get my coffee and make some phone calls. When I return, he is in front of his door on his feet. Flanked by physical therapists and the aid of a walker he ventured to the end of the hallway. Now it’s time to sit in the chair for awhile. 

The movement, though good, brought on more nausea. Stronger drugs are added to his IV. Within minutes he fights sleep again. Dr. Kibbe walks in. He is patient and gentle — the one who is honest about life and death. 

I don’t think he is going to survive very much longer, he told me the day before. Focus on what he wants, allow him that dignity. His heart is weak. His kidney issues only complicate the situation.

Take it one day at a time, he reminds me when I ask if he’ll be well enough to get released to a rehabilitation facility. Hope for good days. Deal with the moments as they come.

I understand. I nod. I am relieved. I don’t know what lies ahead but today, at least, I know where we are.

A man with a stretcher shows up soon. The doctor ordered an X-ray of his abdomen. He leaves the room for awhile. Hospital rooms feel incredibly empty when the patient is gone somewhere out of your reach. He returns almost an hour later. The transfer from the stretcher to the bed is rocky. Stretcher man leaves.

If they breaka your arm, you think you can sue? Sure, I tell him. Did they break your arm during the X-ray? Felt like it. Made me putta my knees to my nose. They droppa me on the table. 

It’s over now, I tell him. OK, he says as his eyes start to close.

When he’s done with his evening soup, I pull my chair up close again. Tonight his eyes settle on something just over my shoulder. He starts to whisper. I lean into hear. What? I ask. My voice doesn’t even register. He continues whispering then turns his head to look at someone else. This conversation doesn’t include me.

My madonna, I hear him say.

He turns back to the spot just above my shoulder. Go home, he whispers. Go home. 

He continues this for several hours, this conversation of whispers and smiles and stares in places all around the room. I kiss him goodnight, confident he’ll be OK.

There are angels among us.