He will not eat. Says he has no appetite and that the thought of eating makes him sick. Is this some geriatric form of anorexia? He wants the end result, though; he wants to die.
And there is no way to get through to him, to change his mind, because that is how he has always been. Always. Resolute, willful; arrogant even.
He has been treated for severe depression. The various types of treatments aren’t working. So he doesn’t eat. He drinks water to avoid dehydration. He spends his day in bed, comes out to his living room and sits for a little while with me, and then goes back to bed. Without the TV on. With an eye mask on. Just … nothing.
I am powerless. I am trying to support him, but the conflicts are many. And I know nothing I do or say will make any difference. So I visit for a while and call to make sure he takes his medication (because he is still taking his medication; there’s a glimmer of hope in that at least).
I spent most of my life terrified of him. Even now I am somewhat shy and never quite comfortable in his presence.
But I do love him, and I don’t want him to go before his time, in this way. And he will go as he sees fit, when he sees fit. Because that’s who he is, that’s how he is.
And this is pointless and futile, but I just need to record it somewhere. This loss, this sorrow. And that little glimmer of hope.