Final Days 2-15-02, 8:00 Am

Well, Pop is resting now. He didn’t get to go home on Thursday. The Oncologist wanted him to have either Hospice or Home Health Care. He wouldn’t sign a release for evaluation for services. Mom said he was rude to the social worker in charge. I can imagine. She called last night at 3:00. The nurses said he was raising hell. He woke up disoriented and wouldn’t take meds to calm down. He said they were peddling dope. I asked him what it was and he said methadone. The nurses laughed a little. I can understand that. He really sounded like Pa Dillard. Pa was also very confused in the latter stages. When I got there, he thought Mom and I had locked him in a room without anything to eat all day. Said he was starving. Wanted to know why he was in the hospital at Archer City, of all places. Kept looking for his cap and pants. Said it was time to go home, to Kamay. He must have forgotten he had told me earlier they had sold the house and didn’t have a thing to their name. Still can’t find his cap. And now he has a trick leg. It won’t mind him. He tries to get up, at least he wants up, and so I help. He can’t stand. So he lies back down and tries to make his trick leg go back to bed. I take care of the leg for him and cover him up as he is no longer hot, but cold and shaking just a little. I don’t think Mom will be able to handle him at home. He has made three references to “taking care of it himself” and the Dr. asked Mom if there were any guns at home. Oh hell! Are there any stars in the sky? Mom has the key to the gun safe. But, does he have another key hidden that she doesn’t know about? I don’t know, but he can’t get up to get a gun anyway. I don’t know where we’ll be when you get here. Call ahead to find out. Love, Dad, Or, brother, as the case may be.