A month or so ago my father died, in exactly the way we all hope to: at an immense age, at home, with his family, in little pain. Early in March he was absolutely himself and now he is gone. This is as good as it gets.
In his final weeks my mother, my sister and I marked each change. The mental transformation was mostly orderly. A sleepy lucidity gave way to episodes of incoherence and confusion. Vivid dreams, some upsetting, quieted gradually into repose. His body ached at the end and we gave him drops of morphine.
By stages, brief conversations were reduced to his whispers of “thank you” and “I love you”, and then silence.
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