At last report, my father is still alive, but is unlikely to live much longer. He was hospitalized for pneumonia, which the antibiotics haven't cured, and then other things went wrong. He has a "Do not resuscitate" order, by his prior decision, and the doctors probably wouldn't be able to do much even if their instructions were to act as aggressively as possible to keep him alive. He is now receiving palliative care, to try to keep him comfortable as his body shuts down.
I am not planning to see him alive one last time; there isn't much to see, and my sister reports that he gives no sign of understanding what people say to him. I do expect to attend his funeral soon enough.
We were often at loggerheads, as fathers and sons sometimes are; when I read Samuel Butler's The Way of All Flesh at the age of eighteen, I found the points of resemblance to my own family uncanny. (In some ways; in other ways, the families are different.) A few years ago, I said to my father that I forgave him for his various wrongs, and I asked his forgiveness for the wrongs I had done to him. He said that he forgave me, and hugged me.
At least, before his death we managed that reconciliation.
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