Swing Low, Sweet Chariot...

When I was a little girl, my Dad used to sing that spiritual to me as a lullaby. Although his singing voice was just an ordinary voice, not like the trained voices on the other side of the family, the sound of him singing that song to me was soothing, and I could feel his love in every soft note.

"Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home..."

My favourite nurse on Dad's unit, Julie, phoned earlier this evening to say that Dad's having a lot of problems swallowing -- he's choking on his pureed or liquified foods more and more often. It's difficult to get much nourishment into him, and there's danger of aspiration and resulting pneumonia. She's going to continue to try giving him fluids, at least (thickened fluids, they're easier to swallow than ordinary thinner liquids). She doesn't know if this is just some sort of a phase that will pass, or if it signals the beginning of the end of his life.

His nearly 98 year old body is tired, and it's ready to rest, is how I see it. There's no point in trying heroic measures to add days or weeks to his life. He may come through this as he did a similar incidence in the summer, or he may not.

The chariot may be coming for to carry him home. It may come soon, it may not, but it will be coming. I have to be ready to let him go.