fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

Death Watch

Even dying, Dad fills the hospital bed. He’s a big man. His slumped body bears two bed sores, one on each leg. A matching set.
Once, he ruled me. A slap of one hand hand here. A smack of his other hand there. “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I wipe my tears as I sit near his hospital bed. Did he just yell at me? His eyes are still closed, and I realize he hasn’t spoken. Not since his “Hello, sweetie” as I walked into the room.

For the first time, I see him as he is now. Old, frail, naked under twisted bedclothes. I get up out of my chair, walk a few steps over to the bed and smooth the top sheet over him. Then, dragging my chair, I get as close to his bedside as I can. I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

Roberta Beary
Bethesda, Maryland

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