Dying?

I get there and he is looking out the window, leaning over as he always does these days.

He sees me and comes over, “There you are.”

“Yep. So how are you today?”

“Oh  not very good.” I think he might be just a bit worn out since yesterday had been a good time, with non-stop dancing until he said somewhat desperately, “I’m tired.” I took him away because if the music is going, he has to dance. Resting is not an option.

But there was more to it than that. Over the next hour and a half, I get the shape of the issue, which continues despite every attempt at diversion and re-setting the mood.

I have to paraphrase because the words are jumbled just as the anxiety seems all mixed up over many things. Basically, he is pretty sure he is dying soon, or will be dead, “because that’s why I am here.” Not much to say to that, especially since there have been several deaths since he came, although I don’t think it is very obvious to the residents. On the bright side, this time he is not concerned about being killed and eaten, so that’s a kind of progress, and it could be worse.

And he is very worried about “What is going to happen to you and me then?” “Well I know about me, but you?” He also has concerns because he thinks he needs to leave me money, perhaps to pay the bills or some other reason: “At least $100,000, well, maybe not that much.”

He tucks my arm in his and says, “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”

I get him busy pushing a sweet Newfie lady around, and hurriedly leave, with my heart bursting and tears falling as soon as I reach the car.