The morning sky dawned pewter gray, and leaden light seeped through the plantation shutters.  I climbed the stairs after my stationary bike ride and knee push-ups, and through a doorway saw Dad sitting on the edge of the bed, in profound shadows.  He did not move, but stared at the wall, at the shutters, and I could feel him contemplating his next move, as in, Do I have the strength to slide off the bed onto the commode?  Will this day deliver the same slow struggle?  He knew it would.  The nurse had called him the day before and had reported, “The doctor asked me to let you know your MRI looks good.”  What does that mean? he had asked.  She did not know.  But I knew.  A “good” MRI means no lumbar spinal condition is contributing to Dad’s profound leg weakness and wasting, to his paralysis.  A “good” MRI means the certainty of a bad diagnosis, of diabetic amyotrophy, incurable, untreatable, a close cousin to Lou Gehrig’s disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  The call annoyed him.  He had questions for the doctor to which he wanted answers, like, Is there anything I can do to slow my deterioration? and Is there any connection between September’s meningitis/encephalitis and today’s diabetic neuropathy?  “Your MRI looks good” answered nothing, but just eliminated a negative.  Mom called to make an appointment, and the receptionist said Dr. Hunter would see him again in four months.  (If he’s still alive, I could not help muttering to myself.)  Watching Dad sit on the edge of his bed, I pushed away thoughts of his perpetual fight against despair; I do not have the strength to absorb his angst.  But I can cook his dinner, and served a beautiful baked chicken and dirty rice baked in a French cast iron casserole.  “Thank you for this lovely dinner, Rog,” Dad praised, and Mom giggled cutely for the hundredth time at being waited upon.  We browsed through Netflix for 30 minutes, and finally settled on an obscure Norwegian movie with dubbed English dialog, and Dad promptly settled into a nap for the duration.  I used the time to assemble his new office chair, since the hydraulic piston had broken on his old chair and it had sunk permanently to its lowest height, too close to the floor for him to get up by himself.  He will feel lordly in the new (and inexpensive) black bonded leather chair, and much more comfortable as he writes letters to beloved family members, one who was injured by a drunk driver, one serving a Church mission in Massachusetts, one shivering in Montana, one in the Army in Honduras, one who is brilliant and has big questions and a good heart, and to others who he loves.  These are his last contributions, the contributions he has the strength for, little actions with big meaning for those he loves.

(Pictured above: chicken and sausage on a bed of dirty rice, Cajun style.)

Pretty on the plate.

The old.The new.