My father-in-law died yesterday. He was 83 years old.

He had been either in the hospital or rehabilitation center for over a month. During the past 9 years, since I first met him, he had several recurring medical problems that demanded hospitalization, treatments, rehabilitation, and many medications. A few years ago he had a stroke, and rehabilitated fairly well, but then fell and broke his femur, and had to be rehabilitated again. About a week before Christmas we noticed that he was less able to stand up and use his walker. By Christmas his speech was deteriorating. Then in January, he couldn’t move to get out of the bed. Diagnosis: another stroke or series of strokes.

He seemed alert this time when they moved him to the rehabilitation center, then some more problems. They shuffled him back and forth from the rehab place and the hospital because of fevers, and infections, until it was clear he needed to stay in the hospital. Pneumonia, kidney failure, and low blood pressure. All four of his remaining children (one daughter passed away before I knew my husband), his wife and I were able to be with him in his last days, but I know everyone was struggling with whether or not he realized that we were gathered around him, loved him and just wanted to him know that we were there. When he opened his eyes for those brief seconds, he couldn’t speak (the strokes), and he didn’t wave or nod. I heard my husband saying a few times that he didn’t think his dad could comprehend. I don’t know if he could comprehend, but I’m hopeful that on some level he knew his family loved him and had gathered around him.

I wrote something yesterday that I thought I’d post here. Tentatively titled: Silent Synapses [This has since been published in a small undergraduate lit mag, and revised (in that order, unfortunately)]

His biting levity would sometimes tighten
my stomach and flinch my skin.
Old age, I’d dismiss it. Crotchety.

Set in his ways, I thought, rooted
in sarcasm and stained white undershirts.
For years, I didn’t understand. It was a gift
he gave his son, my husband.
That askew glance at the world
that burst forth in its sharp tongue.

An unrelenting strength never giving in
to complacency. Only as he grew weaker
in body, spirit and mind, broken by a stroke
did I begin to miss his cutting humor,
begin to smile softer—unforced, begin to wait
for the words to form on his lips

hoping to see some spittle drying
to wit upon his white whiskers.
Frustration. He couldn’t speak
the words that, now, I wanted.
I wanted another chance to hear
his voice quirk, but the sounds

in the soft recesses, in the chasms
of thought and memory, were
forever silent synapses.