Twenty-eight days ago, I posted an essay entitled Dying Grows On You, about coming to terms with my dad's deteriorating health.

The day I wrote that essay, it seemed like Dad had only a few days left. He had just come home on a stretcher from a six-week hospitalization, all skin and bones and drifting in and out of lucidity, like he had one foot in the afterlife. He was accompanied by hospice nurses and a shipment of end-of-life equipment.

I'd been hanging onto hope that Dad would recover his strength and health, at least enough to give him another year or two, but after many depressing conversations with doctors and other hospital people, I'd been confronted with the very real possibility that it was not to be. I was told to do my best to "make him comfortable," and when I suggested recuperative measures or exercises to help him recover, I was consistently met with sympathetic gazes and vague words of comfort. I became convinced that Dad might not make it. That making him comfortable might indeed be the best we could do for him. So, in writing the essay, I sought a state of acceptance and grace in the face of impending loss. And I think I achieved that state. I was utterly prepared, as much as a daughter can be, for my dad to die.

But that has not happened yet.

In fact, Dad's health has improved beyond any of our expectations. After about a week of being bedridden, confused, and non-communicative--of the dying state--he started to regain his footing in the world of the living. His personality returned in a flurry of grins and witty remarks. Encouraged by this development, my mom and I coaxed him to stay up longer in his wheelchair. We gave him exercises to do to restore the strength to his legs and arms. His appetite improved. The next week, he was walking--slowly and feebly with the walker, and only a few paces at a time--but walking. The hospice nurses were blown away. They'd been sure, like we were, I guess, that he had only a week left, tops.

Gradually, my hope returned. The possibility of Dad pulling through--of Dad living--became more real than the knowledge that he was dying. Living grew on me.

Maybe I was right in the first place. He needed to come home. It was being in the cold, dreary hospital environment that was killing him, even more than the bacteria in his bloodstream. Being home rekindled his will to live, I think. That and the fact that, as he told us so many times in the hospital, he wasn't ready to die. Perhaps through sheer stubbornness, Dad has beaten the odds.

Yesterday, my dad walked from the dining table to the refrigerator without his walker. He was sitting at the table, eating lunch, and I was on the couch, within viewing distance of him, but focused on something on my laptop. I heard the fridge door open, and looked up to see him looking into the refrigerator. His walker was back by the table.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm getting a beer," he responded.

Amazing. He's almost back to normal.

Mom and I are deliberating over whether to fire hospice. On the one hand, it seems pretty clear that he's not dying; at least not any time in the immediate future. On the other hand, they offer services that it would be hard to provide on our own. A doctor makes a home visit once a month, and a CNA comes weekly to help give him a bath. He's still not spry enough to take a shower on his own.

I'm still prepared for whatever happens. None of us are immortal, and every son or daughter must, at some point, come to terms with the fact that their parents have an expiration date. Happily, fortunately, blessedly, my dad's date hasn't arrived yet. He does have cancer, and it--or a secondary health issue--will take him at some point. But those dark days of struggling with imminent death gave me more than acceptance and grace. It shored up my reserves of strength and courage, and it made living that much more sweet. A day has not gone by since I wrote that essay when I didn't revel in appreciation of the fact that I get to spend time with my dad.

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Hi! I'm Leslie Starr O'Hara, but my friends call me Starr. I live in the mountains of North Carolina and I am a FULL TIME WRITER who doesn't wait for the muse to show up before getting to work! I write humor, essays, and fiction here on Steemit and elsewhere.

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