leo amy omni-everything. 030503 ... tender_square he was diagnosed at stage four. he hasn’t quit smoking, but he goes through far less than before: a few cigarettes a day instead of a whole pack. he probably isn’t even inhaling those; he can barely speak without losing his breath and having a coughing fit. the smoking is muscle memory, the scent of habit. his doctors asked him to discuss with his friends and family the possibility of enrolling in a clinical trial for the chemo he’s already undergoing. docs won’t say how long he has left; they’re insisting that with this new option, he’ll get four more months. he’s been maintaining this past year, but he can’t stave off what’s coming anymore. his decline is imminent. the side effects of the new medication are horrific. when he first began chemo, he felt like he was itching both inside and out. his reaction was so averse he had to be pumped full of steroids before his body adjusted. he’s already offered the doctors his tissues to study after he passes, whatever organs they need. and still they want a dying man to endure more pain for a mere one hundred twenty-two days of study that are not guaranteed, that will not assure he has quality of life in those final moments. 221201 ... tender_square he's palliative now. he was hospitalized days ago for lung drainage but the medical staff couldn't do what they set out to and he's drowning in his own fluids. mom and dad were waiting until leo was transferred to hospice before saying their goodbyes; he's not going to make it there. his brothers and his sister were at his bedside, saying he was sleeping and wouldn't wake but that if we spoke, he'd hear us. his eyes were half open, his head turned away, breath bursting in spurts after silences. mom rubbed his hair and said she was sorry. dad hovered over leo's body and said, "who will i watch csi with now?" i didn't know what to say, so i rubbed his shoulder and wished quietly that it wouldn't be painful. earlier, the doctors had asked if there was anything they could do for him. leo shook his head. he's accepted what's coming. 230114 ... tender_square he passed last night at 11:50. earlier that same day, leo asked that my parents be contacted to see him. when we left his room yesterday afternoon, we told his family we'd come again in a couple days. 230115 ... raze (i'm so sorry to read this. i'm grateful you all had a chance to say goodbye.) 230115 ... tender_square (thank you, raze. it means more than you know.) 230115 ... tender_square there hasn't been a notice in the paper or a memorial service scheduled and it's been a week since leo passed. he donated his body to science, believing it was the cheapest way to help his estate. his brothers said it's already cost upwards of four-thousand dollars, and could be more. the hospital had to work quickly and send leo's body to a funeral home, to drain his fluids and preserve what's needed by embalming. there was no turning back on the financial investment required. researchers say they can use leo's tissues for up to five years. at some point, his remains will be cremated and given to his daughter. but whether there will be money left over to memorialize him with friends and family has yet to be seen. my parents sat across from this man sipping coffee every morning for four years and they don't even have a picture of his face. 230120 ... tender_square on my parents fridge was a notice from the paper bearing leo's unsmiling photograph. it listed all the loved ones he's left behind, all the family members who predeceased him. and near the end, "survived by many nieces and nephews, and his good friends, especially stu and diane." i'm grateful we were there at the end, to say goodbye before he left. 230211 what's it to you? who go blather from