As I write this, Spitfire is sitting vigil over her father.
Yes, it’s that time.
They are no longer doing “respite care” for him. They have changed to “End of Life Care.”
They are keeping him comfortable and as pain free as possible. Hours, the family was told, days at the most.
He stopped eating yesterday, and they called the paramedics earlier today.
I had pulled back on most, if not all of my DJ duties a couple of weeks ago, except for one set I couldn’t really back out of cause I didn’t have a spare I could call on. I found one, and they said yes, so I’m not doing that set.
And I’m glad I’m not. Spitfire needs me.
My Whip sets got skipped the last two weeks. One week cause I was feeling horrid after an overlong shift. This past week, cause I thought I was having a stroke. I had classic signs – arm weakness, slurred speech, vision failing, nausea, massive headache. In the end, I ended up with a cat scan.
The “time bomb in my brain” my mother was ranting about? It doesn’t exist in mine. My vessels are nice and perfect. Or at least, not that sort of one. See, I was never the smoker my mother was.
But this post isn’t about me.
It’s about the blue skinned with rainbow spots, pink hair and glowing pink eyed alien who I care a ton about. It’s about how she’s coping with the end of life event happening before her very eyes.
If I could be there, I would.
All I can do is pray her father’s toll on the rainbow bridge has been prepaid, and there isn’t a queue.
Spitfire, I don’t care what time it is – blow up my phone if you need to let your grief out. I can always catch up on sleep later.