Michael

confined to a room propped up on pillows lies an emaciated figure beard and long hair like Jesus he does not believe in tender in suffering no doubt barely sustained by a saline drip and morphium tablets he politely accepts small portions of food he possibly wants or not as the end of life as he knows it has neared a father husband brilliant mind now reduced to drifting in and out of consciousness being a doctor must make hanging on more difficult when science and feelings mix with enduring and pain his daughter reads him small verses by Edward Lear which he himself shared with her when she was a child all of a sudden laughter barely audible but powerful fills the room and his eyes fill with both sadness and joy no one has the right nor the power to define quality of life but memories and words are medicine when storm clouds of emotion entice reason and orthodox therapy to take a bow and quiet retreat