Charles Prugh and the Art of Living and Dying: July 4

There is not a lot left of me after I’ve done a writing session with Dad. I couldn’t help think after being with him yesterday that his health is (a bad word) that is condition is continuing to decline. He was given a diuretic yesterday. Maybe that had a downer in it. Maybe its just the drugs but he made little or no sense for most of the day. He struggled to be brilliant and couldn’t be for the most part. Occasionally some beautiful phrase would come out of his head like a “sea of hearts,” but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand the role of the psychologist for hospice. He thought that she was helping with the book. He’s so confused and so depressed. He talked about quitting taking the pills, he thinks that Kaiser doesn’t care about him, and he just assume end it now. He probably just assumed to end it a while ago. I got angry with him. I have an attachment to him finding some peace in all of this. I think I better give up that attachment. We can’t talk any more about the direction this book might take because we can barely have a conversation. It’s a one way situation except he knows when I’m crying and he can answer simple questions like ‘you know you can trust me, right?’ He says yes immediately. Nice to hear after the day before. This kind of exhaustion, I wonder if it simply comes from resisting what is happening? How is it that you can go through an experience like this and not become exhausted? And craving the trivial. Like competing with the yogi next to me even though I know yoga isn’t about competition or reading the sale ad in the newspaper. Who cares about shopping? Who cares about who can bend further forward? Its nice to feel it though, go back to feeling as though those things were important. There was a whole lot in my life that wasn’t important.

Today we go back up. My dreams were mostly about Will helping dad with the standing yoga postures in the time that remains. And not wanting to go. I’m tired. And MY dad is gone. Unfortunately he’s not. He’s a messed up version of my dad. A primordial version. 1.2 or something. I miss the guy who makes sense, who responds right away, who can follow a thought to completion. I miss the guy who took an avid interest in my life.

Last night before bed he was crying about being a fake, about using his business to commiserate with miserable people because when he was counseling miserable people it made him feel better. He said that you just couldn’t have people in to the office and have them sit down and be miserable and have a beer because business didn’t work that way. You had to have some reason – and that is career counseling. But he was incredibly hard on himself. And so miserable as if he is the only person in the world that is dying. He wallows in it, wades in it up to his neck and as far as I could see last night that was a choice. Its so self indulgent I want to say, as if he’s the only person alive. His ability to connect outwardly has been so diminished. Why can’t we take him way off the drugs and find out whats left? Because there will be too much physical pain. When he said when he got home that he died in the hospital it wasn’t too far from the truth.

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