PART VI: Whereupon Amy is summarily kicked out of an Assisted Living community by her mother and then immediately sneaks back in

My dad has been predicting his demise for, at the very least, the last fifteen years. These dark declarations can be ranked in the top five of his favorite hobbies which also include: reading instruction manuals, unnecessarily saving and categorizing every receipt known to man, complaining about his neighbors' offers to help with small yard chores, and getting on ladders every chance he can. 

So it was not surprising to me AT ALL when I was visiting him on Wednesday and arguing about how many bites of applesauce that he would be willing to eat, that he would interrupt our daily dietary debate with his latest prophesy. 

Dad had these conversations down to a science. I'm pretty sure he had the script meticulously written in one of his millions of little notebooks. I am imagining that it may have looked a little like this:

Step One:  Clear your throat (so as to indicate something of Great Importance is about to be stated).

Step Two:  Patiently explain to your loved one that they are NOT going to like what you're about to say but they are just going to have to deal with it. It is, after all, your life...I mean, death.

Step Three:  Announce your intentions, allowing for a dramatic pause for audience indignation and/or protest.

Step Four: Conduct a lengthy question and answer session.

"Amy Sue," he said, batting my hand away as I attempted to slip an unauthorized spoonful of applesauce into his mouth, "I have something to tell you."

He cleared his throat.

"You're not going to like it."

I settled back into my chair and glanced around for a program. The show was about to begin. I wondered if I had time to pop some popcorn.

"These past few months have been tough," said my dad, for once the master of understatement. I nodded. No argument from me. I had never witnessed someone in as such excruciating pain as my poor dad...one nightmarish evening found me on my knees shoveling ice chips in my dad's mouth and Lamaze breathing with him as his back seized up in regular contractions lasting anywhere between 45 seconds to two minutes in length with, if we were lucky, a couple minutes break in between. Brad Mosiman would hold my dad's shoulders to the bed as the rest of his body attempted to levitate away from the pain that was paralyzing him. But my dad had the pulse/ox device clipped to his finger and we'd learned that below 90 was bad. It was explained that, if Dad could control his breathing by pulling air in through his nose and blowing it out of his mouth, we could get that number to rise. And he did. Earl DeLong, "the human earthquake," breathed with me as we fought to control that number through his pain. My dad was tough.

"I think my body has had about all it can handle," he went on as I debated stuffing another spoonful of applesauce into his mouth. He delivered his dramatic pause like a seasoned veteran of the stage. I decided not to ruin his moment with a mouthful of pureed pectin. I glanced over to his cupboards to see if he had any orange Jell-O there. Bingo! I stood to rip off the lid.

"I am going to die on March 16th," he gently informed me. I sat down and he nodded at me sympathetically. It was a lot to take in. I offered him a soothing bite of orange gelatin. He swallowed, waiting for my reaction. "Well...ya better get cracking there, buddy," I told him as I slipped an ice chip between his lips. He raised his eyebrows at me questioningly. I leaned in to him and grinned. "Dad, TODAY is March 16th!" He laughed out loud.

My dad is going to be so pissed that he'd miscalculated by three days.

Go with God, Earl DeLong.