I can’t look. One day he’s dying and the next day he resurrects. The only thing is, his body isn’t in full working mode, his fingers are bent at an unnatural angel incompatible with the keyboard. I find it painful to stand there and watch him fumble around, hitting every key except the ones that make up words.
“Grandpa,” I say loudly, “stay on the alphabet keys! Stay away from all of these keys on the right, and use the ones that make up the words!”
He wanted to work on his book, but I wasn’t about to risk getting him out of bed to do it. He’s too fragile, and I’m pretty sure his wheelchair days are over, so I put his monitor and keyboard on top of the hospital table and wheeled it over to the bed. That’s when I realized it was all over. That’s when I knew I had witnessed Grandpa’s last request to work on his book.
Have you ever thought about how many keys there are on a typical computer keyboard have nothing to do with storytelling? Well, he pretty much figured out every stroke it takes to bring up a window that has nothing to do with what he’s working on. I have helped him get back on track several times, but I am not playing technical assistant and nurse maid to a dying author of any acclaim. Even if he was famous, it would be of no use, he can’t type.
I am totally miffed. How many people at the age of 95 are asking to go on their computers, anyway, especially when they are on their death beds? Even dying isn’t sacred anymore . . . or maybe is is. He wanted to do what he loved the most, up to the last minute.
This morning I had another one of those talks of release with Grandpa.
“Are you going on ahead of me?” I asked him.
He smiled a big denture-less smile.
“You bugger,” I said.