The tempest of old age and decline

The Machine that holds Bud tied this world is breaking down.  For many years he has cheated death, gracelessly avoided the pitfalls of old age while veering near the edge, but always returning.  Once during his last heart surgery the surgeon came out and gave the family the "We did all we could for him" speech, only to have him to the Doctor's surprise, recover fully later. The last few years have been full of close calls and hospital trips. Overnight and week long stays.  Late night calls from ERs asking for his healthcare directive paperwork and panicked drives to Eastside hospital rooms in the middle of the night, trying fruitlessly to talk to everyone, on a cell phone cradled like a violin. Tonight it happened again. He has been getting progressively weaker the last few weeks, so much so, we have been talking about more care and wheelchairs. It's too much for my mom to take care of him now- she's 89 and he is 90. Today my sister called and told me it had been a tough day and he had been unable to walk, and after being helped to the men's room at a restaurant, had become confused and lost inside, forgetting what he was there for or how to exit. This man was a powerful decision maker all his adult life: it is predictably hard to watch him swirl on the edge like this. I am waiting to talk to the ER nurse tonight at 11PM. At  midnight they admitted him to the hospital.

Tomorrow is Tom's first day of school and a new bus ride and he is nervous. I am going to take him to the bus stop and wait with him. A huge milestone for him in some ways, as this is the advanced placement school across town. And all I can think of is Bud, as he was when he was my little league coach, and how what is happening now, would never have seemed possible then. I think of what I must look like to Tom as we will wait for  the bus; the grown up who is steady and always there. I see a future Tom or Ned racing to our sides at some hospital ER and it all just seems like a very poorly designed, infinitely repeated carnival ride.  I am dizzy. When will I forget how to exit the men's room, forever changing my kid's image of me from strong parent to wandering, befuddled shell?