I like this story, Doug. It reminds me of Indian deaths, wakes and funerals; the humor, the rage, the retellings (gossip) mixed with teaching stories, card games and the going-home honour songs. The peoples laughter rising over the lonely howls of rez dogs. Thanks for this lovely little microstory.
Thanks, Doug. I really liked this piece. Mike and I have a dear friend who is 81 and in hospice now. It is painful to think about her dying, but there it is, writ all over her body. I see hospice now as a process for her and all of us. My daughter "Cricket" is a doctor at Brigham and Women's in Boston. It is useful to talk with her about the desecration of cancers that take over the body and how and why the body breaks down. In any case, I hope when I get to the point that I want to take myself to the bathroom but can't because I'm too weak to get there that someone will send me to another world.
Lovely story, Doug - straightforward, clean delivery. I was in a high school choir that went a couple of times during each school year to an Assisted Living facility, and the regret I’ve felt about not being kinder and more cheerful with the patients has stayed with me (haunted me, even) for decades. Aging is so much more difficult than I anticipated, and I wish I’d been able to share some joy with them (or, as you contemplate in your story, just the right wirds of comfort) instead of finding their fragility unnerving.
This one touches a chord. My own reading: with Beatrice, the patient are never alone.
Out of the mouths of babes… what, I wonder,triggers the change to saying what we dont mean and meaning what we dont say? Not age!
I like this story, Doug. It reminds me of Indian deaths, wakes and funerals; the humor, the rage, the retellings (gossip) mixed with teaching stories, card games and the going-home honour songs. The peoples laughter rising over the lonely howls of rez dogs. Thanks for this lovely little microstory.
Thanks, Doug. I really liked this piece. Mike and I have a dear friend who is 81 and in hospice now. It is painful to think about her dying, but there it is, writ all over her body. I see hospice now as a process for her and all of us. My daughter "Cricket" is a doctor at Brigham and Women's in Boston. It is useful to talk with her about the desecration of cancers that take over the body and how and why the body breaks down. In any case, I hope when I get to the point that I want to take myself to the bathroom but can't because I'm too weak to get there that someone will send me to another world.
Deeply touching, Doug. Resonates with me in my 80s.
Lovely story, Doug - straightforward, clean delivery. I was in a high school choir that went a couple of times during each school year to an Assisted Living facility, and the regret I’ve felt about not being kinder and more cheerful with the patients has stayed with me (haunted me, even) for decades. Aging is so much more difficult than I anticipated, and I wish I’d been able to share some joy with them (or, as you contemplate in your story, just the right wirds of comfort) instead of finding their fragility unnerving.