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www.kevacho.com
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Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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November 28, 2010
Life and Death
Today I drove the route that always brought me to my sick father. And I felt nothing, except relief, relief in not having to see him that way.
Maybe, I'm making this all about me. Maybe, it's easier for me that way. Hell if I know.
There is an old woman at the "assisted living" facility whose name is, ironically, Rose. She hated being there, and had no qualms letting every one around her know. I remember standing outside the door leading into my dad's room. There were tons of people in the hall: my aunt, my sister, my mother (all of whom looked wrecked beyond any semblance of normalcy), even my second cousin and two of Nici's friends. It seemed surreal to me, everyone standing out in the hall talking, waiting for dad to die. Bizarre. Meanwhile, here comes Rose, churning a path through our group, parting us like pliable stalks of grain, her walker held out in front of her like a scythe, and there she goes, her mantra escaping her mouth like a belch, "God take me now." Rose, always pissed me off, but she used to say something that always stuck with mom and me. "Life is a strange journey," she would croak. No shit. Truer words have never been uttered.
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