In his early sixties, after a lifetime of vigorous health and strength, he contracted a rare neurological disorder that killed him inch by inch. First, he couldn’t walk. Soon after that, he couldn’t dress himself or feed himself. Eventually he was confined to bed, wearing adult diapers. A nurse came and changed him several times a day, rolling him from one side to the other with the detached and practiced care of the medical professional. My dad’s eyes remained sharp and intelligent. He was in there. We all knew that. But his body deserted him, like an electrical device with a failing battery. He slowly wound down, losing motion and control. A slow unraveling. The last thing to go was his ability to speak. For several months, his voice became a raspy whisper. Every word cost him effort. To say something as simple as “yes” could take five minutes and reserves of precious energy he just didn’t have. I didn’t visit as much as I should have.
