wheelchair.Evenwithbothofthemdisabledandintheir
mideighties, they were able to make staying at home
work.
Myparentsand I talked aboutjoiningAthens Village.
The only other option was home hospice care, and I
hesitated to raiseit. Its mere mention would drag the
dark, unspoken subject of dying onto the coffee table
between us. Discussing Athens Village let us pretend
what my father wasgoing through wasjust a kind of
aging. But I steeled myself and asked whether home
hospice was something to consider, as well.
My father, it turned out, was willing to contemplate
hospice,mymotherlessso.“Idon’tthinkit’snecessary,”
shesaid.Butmyfathersaidthatmaybeitwasn’tabad
idea to have someone from the agency tell us about it.
ThenextmorninganursepractitionerfromAppalachian
CommunityHospicestoppedby.Mymothermadesome
tea,andwesataroundourdiningtable.Iwillconfessto
expecting little of thenurse. This wasn’tBoston. The
agencywascalledAppalachianCommunityHospice,for
God’s sake. The nurse blew me away, though.
“Howareyou?”shesaidtomydad.“Doyouhavealot
of pain?”
“Not right now,” he said.
“Where do you get the pain?”
“In my neck and in my back.”
Withthatopening,Irealized,shehadestablishedafew
things.She’dmadesurehewasinastateofmindtotalk.