Hospice brought Dad home on Tuesday, so Monday was spent doing a modified "death watch," wherein Mother allowed all her relatives up to see him even though he specifically said the only people allowed were me, her and his best friend (who completely let his ass show after the funeral, but another time, so on and so forth). And Mother did her whole wailing and gnashing her breast and all that, but the real fun came that Tuesday. I'd gotten to my folks' crib from work after spending what would be the last real lunch I'd ever have with B-Dubs (as an aside, thanks for making that day all about you and your bullshit) and wandering aimlessly around the Field's closer to home trying to decide if I really needed to purchase new foundation and trying to talk myself out of buying a pair of black pumps when I already had a pair.

So I walk in, and Dad, who was pretty much comatose at that point, was set up in the living room with an oxygen tank and all that. Well, she was already talking to my sainted aunt about how he was for all intents and purposes dead, and upon hearing that I proceeded to have a complete and utter hemorrhage: "You know, he can HEAR YOU." And she was all like "No, he can't." Because, you know, even though there's really no knowing for sure how much a person functions while they're in a coma, her pain was more important than the fact that he knew he was dying and didn't particularly want to HEAR IT WHILE HE WAS STILL ALIVE. So to be a shit, I started telling him about the Cubs game that was on, and then I asked him if he wanted me to turn the sound up. And he inaudibly mouthed "Yeah."

There was more than a littlesome smug satisfaction in the look I shot at Mother. Now, iff'n I only knew how to evoke my powers of evisceration ...