There is a countdown on. There’s always been a countdown on, but I haven’t been so keenly aware of it. Between counts, I go and touch him, feeling his broad shoulders and firm skull against my fingertips and my shoulders. Feeling his hard head against my soft cheek, his soft hair against my hard cheekbone. I touch him and know that the countdown will take him from me eventually. And then I will long for the sensation of a dad I can touch and talk to and laugh with. Even with the Parkinson’s dementia, his face lights up when he sees me and he asks why I’ve been gone for so long. I brush off the “so long“ because it’s only been a few days, but hospital time counts on a different scale entirely. I imagine the days unfold very strangely when you are not only in a sterile hospital environment – he certainly knows that one well – but counting via hallucinations and confusion, the neurons not firing as they used to. I know that truth feels very bendy right now, it’s quite the haze of dreams and memories, old office coworkers, needed phone calls, papers that are due, classmates from college, children and their spouses. And Claudia, always Claudia.

Today I touch and give thanks for the touch. And then lament the slipping past of time and abilities. This feels like it might last forever. This feels like it might be over way too soon. It’s a life of contradictions, all with a ticking clock.