It did happen quickly; the doctors had said anywhere from a month to three, it was actually only a few weeks. He had given up pretty completely, was on massive painkillers and barely conscious; I think it was probably a blessing for all concerned. I actually did less watching than I probably should have; I recruited a couple of local Australians, people on extended vacations, without jobs or families, to do most of the face-to-face good samaritan work. The most gratifying response I got was in the Midnight Rambler, a local bar noted for excellent rock & roll at maximum volume, good basic food, and pool tables. The owner is Aussie, the clientele mainly bikers and off-duty oil-rig workers, with other working class types thrown in. I went in on the off chance, screamed a bit in the ear of Kym, the manager, and was amazed at how fast he picked up on it. "Doyin', is he? Cancer? Royt." He popped off the music, drew the attention of the masses, and explained the situation in about two sentences. They passed the hat, raised no small sum, turned over to me without question, and arranged daily visits. The visitors rode Harley, but I don't think the guy cared. It struck me in the middle of it that they had done this before, that the whole process was familiar, and that they all knew that one of them might be next down, though more likely with liver trouble.
Had a much less effective response from the respectable set.
The last two days were in the hospital, mostly a matter of form, everybody involved knew there was nothing much to be done.
Tomorrow I will deal with the urns. I may even wear shoes, though I doubt it. |
