The sunset.

Haven’t blogged much lately, much to the disappointment of regular readers. Apologies are probably in order. Strange thing about a blog is that it’s your’s, but after a certain amount of time, not to mention accumulation of readers, you become beholden—to it, and them. So in an effort to be more “regular” I’m toying with the idea of trying to blog more frequently, with shorter more succinct blogs. Mind you, I’ve never been too brief with my blogs so let’s see how it goes.

My neighbor Don is dying. Not exactly happy news I know, but the news all the same. I had written some months ago about my ex-Philadelphian neighbor and friend Don relating to me one morning as I checked my mail that he had tested positive for cancer of the esophagus. He was apparently fighting the good fight—and quite hopeful indeed when all of a sudden things took a turn. Don was with me all through my own father’s demise, and in some ways acted as a surrogate as we would pass in the parking lot or meet over fetching the trash cans. He loved talking Eagles and Phillies---just like my old man.

He’s in the hospital right next to my house. I saw his incredibly nice and friendly wife Doris yesterday. She looks beside herself with worry, and is having trouble getting the information she needs, telling me there are as many Doctor’s for each of Don’s maladies and that she hasn’t been able to get the “plan” from any one Doctor. Meanwhile Don is steadily sliding on her. I know this story all too well. I’m going over there to see old grumpy Don and to help Doris try to sort out the chain of command the best I can as a non-family member. This of course is quite sad, as they only have each other and an adult daughter in Philly. They each were so hopeful after starting chemo a month ago.

From what I’ve heard it does not sound good, feeding tube, catheters, etc. Don has lost 30 lbs in 8 days going from 220 to 190. He is 80 years-old. He’s tough, and was by my estimation in quite good shape. Funny how time in the hospital can result in as many factors against a patient as it can for him. His will sounds weak, his strength dwindling. I remember all too well witnessing this in my father. Not sure what good I can do other than to be supportive of Doris, and assure Don that I’ll be helping her. It really is sad. End of life issues never seem as real as they do when you’ve been through them. Then they suddenly seem to be all around you.

I’m trying to remain upbeat, though I dread the memories that await me in that room. I’ll go though, because I know Don is not long for this world, and a new face will make the world of difference to him.