Most of the time, I see a path out of here. "Aspiration", it's termed, as though it's desirable. My throat constricted and the flap which directs food, water, and air to the esophagus or lungs does not distinguish among them. My voice is gone to a whisper, metered by COPD pauses, the residue of radiation and chemo treatments to an inoperable lung 18 months prior. I also wear an eyepatch to mitigate the double vision effects of a palsied left eye. To exercise I limp around the hospital hallway with a cane, massaging my right-side cancer-weakened femur into absorbing a titanium support rod shoved down it two months ago. Their pose does not earn them grateful partner status with the truth and the beauty of the brew. I have hope for her without knowing how to guide her toward understanding, to recognize that deceptions propped against the brewing cauldron are not armored supports that protect the gumbo. One lives too far from here, and grieves for the lost opportunity, while the great sadness for the other is a heart and mind pursued and too often subdued by Fear, Anger, and Lost Faith. I have some for my two elder daughters, but there are obstacles. My daughters Beth and Cindy spend hours at a time visiting with me in the hospital, drinking the brew. The light she brings is the disinfectant I pour over the ingredients, revealing what's safe for consumption. My Una, she sleeps on a small, fold-out chair/bed at night. Mary has been by my side since we arrived, Wednesday. Gumbo, it seems to be, a lifetime's gather of indistinct animal and vegetable parts. Sometimes I can see small craters where bubbles came and went. When my eyes dim, we watch a cauldron of confusions and impurities bubbling on slow simmer-a potent, unsettling brew whose attraction I cannot escape. Steroid induced sleeplessness and the proximity of Death creep in for late night companions. I am but waiting for you-very near-just around he corner. What is death but an unavoidable incident? Why should I be out of your mind because I am out of your sight? There is absolute and unbroken continuity. Life means all that it has ever meant, the same as it ever was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Let my name be the household word it always was. ![]() Play, smile, think of me, pray for me-a little. Laugh as we always laughed at the jokes we enjoyed together. ![]() Speak of me in the easy way you always did. Whatever we were to each other we still are.Ĭall me by my old familiar name. I am me, you are you, and the life we lived together is untouched and unchanged. I have merely slipped away into the next room. I share this with you all below, in loving memory of my friend, Dean. A number of years ago I shared a memorial written for an elderly friend of mine who had passed and Dean commented that it was the most eloquent valedictory as he had ever seen. He was a gifted craftsman who would literally hand you the shirt off his back if you chanced to admire it. He was a loving husband, father, grandfather and friend and mentor to countless people around the globe. On November 4, 2016, Dean Torges crossed the Great Divide.
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