is visiting us from England, so I took him to visit with my parents. We all had a lovely time. I’m so glad my dad and he got to talk again. He said my dad looked good and my mother said, “Poor man. Everyone says he looks great and he feels like hell!” My dad agreed with her. I don’t know what to make of that, frankly. He does look good. The morphine has made such a difference that I forget he sleeps most of the day, doesn’t eat much and can barely walk.

I sometimes feel like I’m too aware of his death, yet one of his oncologists flat out told him last month, “I shouldn’t be talking to you. You’re supposed to be dead. It’s outside all our experience!” So I’m not exaggerating, but if he’s outlasted expectations this long, all bets are off as to when he’ll begin his final descent (sounds like a plane).

Ah, well. Love ‘em while I’ve got ‘em and not sweat it until I must.