You stay in the room with him the whole time. You only leave once to pee, and you let yourself linger, praying it’ll all be over by the time you get back. But, of course, it isn’t; it won’t be over for hours.

Sometimes you’re alone with him. Most of the time, your father and brother are there. Sometimes you sit, sometimes you stand beside the bed. You try talking to him, but you don’t try for very long. You don’t know if he can hear you, and if he can, he can’t respond. You give up. You let the machines do the talking: the whirr, buzz, beep, and click of air forced into failing lungs.

At first, he’s able to make eye contact with you, and you know, at least temporarily, that he knows you’re there. But as they up his morphine dosage, his gaze wanders to the ceiling tiles and sticks.

You’re there when they take the air pump away. They replace it with a steady stream of oxygen, which he must inhale and exhale manually. You know he can’t keep this up for long. Your father agreed to this. You agreed to this.

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