His eyes were barely open, but I assumed he knew I was there. He couldn’t speak, his flesh the color of old raw chicken. The oxygen sucked and blew, a relentless mechanical pulse, tugging him step by step toward the inevitable. Many machines stood guard including a device that beeped at regular intervals, meaning what? “Alive, dead, alive, dead.” The nurse shuttled in every hour or so, detached his excretory bag from the catheter and carried it off to be flushed away—flush, flush—humanity is residue. So many excretions and effluvia of the dying had been dispatched in that little room, hundreds, maybe thousands of times.

Sis came and went. She’s gotten good at this. Hardened. Not like when Mom passed. She’d brought a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and they had ended up unopened beside a foul wad of paper towels on a tray by the bed. The paper towels were there to wipe humidity from Dad’s oxygen mask. I tried to remember the name of the funeral director I had met at Sadie’s.

I was sitting there because…why? For him? He was barely conscious. I was there so I could tell everyone I met, “I was with my dad in the hospital—four hours!,” then all would praise me, maybe love me? So someday the others would show up at my bed when it was my turn to die. Headline: National Book Award Winner finds time to visit sick father in hospital.

There was a text message on my cell phone. CALL ME—THEO.

November 22, 2006

Somehow the old man has survived the week. I should be happy but constant visits have interrupted my writing. Not that I’m writing anything worthwhile. Lame Thanksgiving with Sis at the local Outback Steakhouse. Been avoiding Theo. ’Gitte has called as well. I should return that call but haven’t been able to find the time.

Desire has been the motivating force of my life. I guess there are other things that can serve that purpose: Love, for one. Hate, another. The prime mover has been desire. When I was small I wanted what I couldn’t have. Then I wanted what you had. Eventually, I wanted everything. Later, I wanted a girl, then your girl, then every girl.

I would say to myself, “you play the hand you’re dealt.” And I prided myself in playing my hands well.

But in the long run, everyone gets more or less the same hand. Age deals it. Infirmity and death, that’s all there is in the end. No matter what you’ve accumulated, that’s what you’re left with. There’s no difference between him (Dad) and me.

Here I am now. I have everything I ever wanted. But the dealer won’t stop dealing. And now what do I do? If I don’t want, how can I “be me”? Who am I without desire?

January 15, 1979