third day, he’d become unarousable again for long
periods.Thequestionbecamewhethertokeepgivinghim
hisregulardoseofliquidmorphine,whichcouldbeput
under his tongue where it would absorb into his
bloodstreamthrough hismucous membranes.Mysister
andIthoughtweshould,fearingthathemightwakeupin
pain. My mother thought we shouldn’t, fearing the
opposite.
“Maybeifhehadalittlepain,he’dwakeup,”shesaid,
her eyes welling. “He still has so much he can do.”
Eveninhislastcoupleofdays,shewasnotwrong.When
hewaspermittedtoriseabovethedemandsofhisbody,
hetooktheopportunityforsmallpleasuresgreedily.He
couldstillenjoycertainfoodsandatesurprisinglywell,
askingfor chapatis,rice,curriedstring beans,potatoes,
yellowsplit-peadahl,black-eyed-peachutney,andshira,
a sweet dish from his youth. He talked to his
grandchildren by phone. He sorted photos. He gave
instructions about unfinished projects. He had but the
tiniestfragmentsoflifeleftthathecouldgrab,andwe
were agonizing over them. Could we get himanother
one?
Nonetheless,Irememberedmypledgetohimandgave
him his morphine every two hours, as planned. My
motheranxiouslyacceptedit.Forlonghours,helayquiet
andstock-still,exceptfortherattleofhisbreathing.He’d
havea sharpintake ofbreath—itsoundedlikea snore
that would shut off suddenly, as if a lid had come
down—followedasecondlaterbyalongexhale.Theair
rushingpast themucoidfluidin hiswindpipesounded
like someoneshaking pebbles in a hollow tube in his