While My Father Dies, Christopher Schmidt Living, Loving, and Surviving in a Post Apocalyptic America,

While My Father Dies

Christopher Schmidt

“He’s going to a better place,” they lie whenever I see them. But I get it; it’s easier isn’t it? They have kids, families, mortgages, schedules. We all do. But how will I even step toward the door after that barrage of kisses he’s given? How do I say, “I’ve seen you enough today?” I shuffle to my car, where I sit paralyzed, like a poet or painter, who is rapt by all the wretchedness of life— its odors and dampness.

In the morning my father rests in bed like Ahkenaten: 145 pounds and counting, down another 10 this week. Will more flesh resign from its duties and melt into his sheets with his sweat and pee? Then what? And what do I hope for: more time for him to skeletonize, to forget what day it is, to have more strangers scurry off with his modesty? Does it matter? Where does my hope fit in anyway? He hopes to go home in a few weeks; his protruding pelvis and sunken chest apparently are not sufficiently off-putting to him. And, wow, he almost stood yesterday! Is this when we, his sons, gallop in with heroic cries of “rage, rage against the dying of the light”? Or, should my brothers and I plan for the day we fold his arms across his chest, and dress him for his tomb? On that day, in-laws and neighbors will speak

of the joy that his suffering has ended. No doubt, the funeral chatter will be of the serenity ahead, because it pacifies the chatterers so. And, finally, lives will resume, no longer interrupted by the inconvenience of phone calls about another fall down the stairs. Until then, I’ll continue to praise his grip and his smile. I’ll encourage him to use his legs to build their strength. I’ll congratulate him for eating all his food and drinking all his water. I’ll remind him how much he is cared for in this place no one wants to be, and that he is doing well and making good progress. At the end of this day, I’ll get my kisses, and give my hugs. Over and over I’ll ask if he needs anything and it will take me too long to leave. Because I hate closing his door behind me; and because I know I am a liar too.