Today, everything has telescoped down to the glass-topped coffee table in the living room, and his narcotics. Narcotics because he’s always in pain, but don’t ask him ask if it’s “manageable,” because no one knows what that means. Jessie Girl cuts up Ma Kitty’s skrimps, because I forgot to, and the I pour another glass of wine. It must be noon or thereabouts. Right on schedule. Today, his hospice nurse, Dawn, shows up. I hide my wine glass when she arrives– once she caught me drinking straight out of the bottle. She counts his Fentanyl patches. She’s the bad cop.
Dude, she says, There’s only eleven, there should be fifteen.
He’s replaced them every 48 hours, instead of 72, because he can’t stand the breakthrough pain. His shoulders jut out like chicken wings.