The Time Spent Watching

I walked into the dark bedroom where he laid on the bed, his stomach bloated and discolored, his head free from most hair and sheared close with what remained. A scant few weeks ago, those locks had been a mixture of healthy brown and gray of one approaching his golden years; now they are all white, apparently a result of the failed efforts to put the cancer into remission with chemotherapy.

“Hey, bud, how’s it going?”

“I’m fine… well, no, not really, but you know. Fine.”

“Yeah. I kinda’ figured. Don’t worry about getting up. I just came in to say howdy and share a few good jokes.”

“Knowing you, they won’t be few and they won’t be good. They might not even be jokes.”

This is the heart of how our relationship works. We have some painful history from long ago, but we’ve gotten along for 18 years mostly by ignoring it, focusing on acerbic jokes and keeping our conversations light. I really don’t mind having shallow relationships. But over the course of the better part of two decades, I’ve come to like the guy, even though I know I’d never have met him or struck up a friendship were it not for the fact that my mother married him.

“So an Irishman walks into a bar and orders three beers. He retreats to a corner and slowly drinks all three one by one. After a few weeks, the barman asks him why he orders them all at once rather than one after the other. “‘Well, you see,’ says the Irishman, ‘my two mates back in Ireland and I decided that even though I was moving to the States, we’d still have a beer together every Friday. So I order one for me, and one each for my mates. The bartender agreed with this rationale, and didn’t think much of it until a year later when the Irishman only ordered two beers. The bartender went to his table and expressed condolences for the loss. “‘Oh, my mates are fine,’ said the Irishman. ‘I’m the one that quit drinking.'”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips. In a faint whisper, he said, “I’ve heard that one before, but it was a very long time ago. Do you have another one?” He rolled to his right side, in obvious pain.

“Do you know what the difference is between a pun and a fart?”

One eye creaked open. “No, what?”

“A pun is a shift of wit.”

“You told me that one not long ago. Still funny, though.”

I told him a few more jokes. He was fading in and out of consciousness. “Well, I’m pretty much out of good jokes.”

“Well, those were nothing like good jokes. Send your mother back in.”

I retreated to the kitchen where the family had gathered, receiving flowers from concerned friends and talking about better times. I cut a few flowers and arranged them in a vase, then kept my kids policed to the basement where with a dozen other grandchildren they were playing some kind of role-playing war-game using pieces from my mother’s extensive collection of sewing materials as markers. I replaced a few light-bulbs which had long since burned out, and promised to come see if I could fix the electrical problem which was preventing the porch lights from turning on. With all the guests they are getting, you know, having working porch lights is a necessity.

We retired back to our home late that night. My wife and I discussed the situation at some length, particularly focusing on how we want to handle the scheduled vacation to Seattle this week if he passes. Like many serious subjects, I handle it much better when I’m well-rested and clear-headed, so I asked Christy if we could talk more tomorrow. Funny thing, though… tomorrow is here, and I still don’t want to talk about it.

I wonder why that is.