T Minus of Another Sort

This morning, like most mornings, I make my way to Mark's room. Stumbling, one foot after the other. My brain is not fully engaged. All I can think about are the very basic necessities: a pee, a yogurt and a smile from Marky.

When I peek over the canvas sides of his bed he's almost always awake. This morning he needs a diaper change, so I take care of that first. Then I take care of my need, that smile or better, a laugh to fuel my day. I lean in and bump noses, but there's nothing. I try again, and then there is a tiny sound, a whimper. I turn my ear to his mouth and ask if he's trying to say something – another whimper. Mark is telling me he's not feeling well.

Yesterday morning was so good that it was easy to forget what is really going on here. This morning there is no mistaking, Mark is dying. That's the sad truth, but what really brings the tears is that he has no voice. Mark can't even tell me how he feels in all of this. There are times when I strain to imagine what he's thinking, and then in some sad way I try to be his voice. This morning I can't even do that.

T minus of another sort is so similar to any other lift off. It involves careful preparation: packing as much love into his little soul as he can stand, making music and keeping him comfy. All this so that Mark can overcome the gravitational pull of this life and blast off...

             ...to infinity and beyond.

Dad