In Media della Nostra Vita

Among the many 'pleasures' of middle age that await me is that of saying farewell to my parents. (Yes, I KNOW I'm lucky to still have them.)

At present I'm watching my beloved 88-year-old dad slowly diminish. His is a gentle slide towards the abyss, the heart weakening and the breath shortening, but mental and other faculties all intact; and I know I am supposed to be grateful, that he is not suffering too much, that he is not having to undergo any painful therapies, and that trips to the hospital, with all their attendant degradations (really, you can't even take a s---t alone), remain just occasional, at least for now.

But I'm not grateful, I'm still too busy being incredulous and upset that this is happening. Wasn't he going to be on the Today Show, Willard Scott saying "Happy Birthday, 103 years old today?" I am stuck at the part where I simply cannot imagine this world without him in it. Even if all he is doing at this point is crosswords and sudoku and reading books... the sweetness and wit remain -- a spark that even survives profound hearing loss and throws out a sudden riposte when you thought he wasn't listening.

It has been - instructive? - not sure how to characterize this - to see how the spirit truly shines through the thinning frame, how, as daily life concerns dwindle, core feelings get more exposed. I have witnessed his terrible remorse for having been among those who bombed the ball bearings plants of the Nazi war machine, an action which he knows cost many civilian lives. He sits at the kitchen table and the tears stream down his sunken cheeks. No reassurance that the Nazis had to be stopped from annihilating the Jewish people and the rest of Europe can allay his guilt and sadness for having bombed and killed people who were, most likely, forced labor rather than willing volunteers. All bombast about the larger goal of the Allied victory no longer speaks to him; he just sees the imagined faces of his victims.