I Returned For Thanksgiving To Find My Parents Gone—And My Father Waiting

of sleep anymore.

It was Cheyne-Stokes respiration—the death rattle.

His breathing would start deep and loud, rasping like a saw through wet wood, getting faster and shallower, and then stop completely for ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty terrifying seconds of absolute silence before starting again with a desperate gasp.

I sat by his side holding his hand,continue reading …