A great friend is
seriously ill. More than a friend, he's a spiritual father. For many years, I
have leaned on his steadfast wisdom.
I love him dearly;
but I am not a family member. Therefore, I am not privy to his prognosis. His
immediate family only knows me as one of the flock who look up to him. I don't
know if he is dying or suffering a debilitating setback.
I visit his bedside
several times a weak. Some days he smiles and calls me by name. Sometimes he
just smiles. Sometimes he sleeps. He wears restraints and lies in a quiet room,
often alone.
When awake, his eyes
are peacefully alert. He listens to me and answers some simple questions with a
word or two, a nod, a smile, a rolling of the eyes--his sense of humor intact.
Then he speaks. The words are soft, a mix of full phrases that drift into one
another often meaninglessly.
I feel selfish. I
desperately miss his booming voice, his book suggestions, his birding stories,
his insights into my own heart. I miss his self. I wonder if he is missing his
self as well.
Yet, he is still
here, and I will still be there as long as he is.
This is age. This is
illness. This is life.
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