After he was diagnosed with the return of inoperable, untreatable stage 4 laryng

eal cancer, my father opted to start hospice care and soon thereafter, to stop h
is stomach feeds. For many days he remained alert, funny and engaged with his vi
sitors, but gradually weaker and weaker.
On Easter Sunday, I arrived early at my dad's nursing home to find him dressed a
nd sitting in a regular (not reclining) wheelchair, eager to go into the courtya
rd outside his room and enjoy the gorgeous weather.
As we sat in the sun, I told Marvin that I had always thought that someday I wou
ld get a tattoo and that driving over, I had come up with design. "Don't get a t
attoo," he said, "they're permanent." (I use the word "said," but he was voicele
ss and I was reading his lips, and as I had had a lot of practice, this was almo
st as easy as chatting). "I know, I know," I replied, "but really everything is
permanent." He smiled at me and shook his finger and said, "Everything is imperm
anent."
It was a joke and we both laughed, hard. Talk about situational humor, huh?
Anyway, I went on to tell Marvin the tattoo idea I had. I wanted it to say "This
Very Moment." Because I learned by being with him how powerful and potentially
joyful each moment is. And what could have illustrated that better than sharing
a laugh-out-loud joke about the impermanence of life with a dying man.
Dying was baffling for Marvin, but he had a glorious and gallant talent for livi
ng and he carried that with him until the very end. I am so grateful to have had
him for my father, and grateful too to have shared his last months and days and
hours.