Surfin' the Morphine...

Watching my Dad lying in his Hospice bed is no fun. He and I aren't friends. We maintain a distant relationship (similar to the state he's in now, adrift on Roxanol). He's too young to die, possibly, yet spent his life killing himself with alcohol. And with crafty, manipulative skill, alienating everyone who loved him. Most of all his three wives and four children. My siblings and I spent our lives tripping that fine line between love and hate for him. All of us have, or have yet to, come to forgive him. But that's four other long, sordid stories...

Watching him now, I think he's happy. Not at peace. I doubt for a restless brain like his, there will be peace until he's passed on. And we all want peace for him. But he'll have none of it. Just keeps hanging on. For what, I ask myself? But secretly, I know. He's taking a joy ride inside his complicated, calculating mind, creating formulas, scenarios, inventing ideas and delusions in a world, no... a universe that only he controls.

Years ago, my Dad worked with other chemical engineers to create solid fuel for rockets going into space. So I clasp his weak fingers and give him a countdown. 10...9...8... as children we watched every launch into space (when we had TV). 7...6...5... but mostly listened to them on radio (mostly we had no TV). 4...3...2... he loved space, science fiction, possibilities hiding in nebulas (one of the few things he and I shared). 1...

Lift off, I say to his ravaged face. He doesn't go. Just draws another raggedy breath. I imagine him inside his synaptic space capsule, flipping switches, going through engine checks. Fueled by morphine, he's counting down his own launch sequence. Stubborn SOB. I smile, turn to the book in my hand and launch myself into the Clash of Kings (by George R. Martin). I am, after all is said and, yes, done... my father's daughter.