Here it comes, it's lengthy and the comments are tear jerking and oh so caring. I am so fortunate to have such FB friends who want to share with me in my time of need.
I called Doug and shed tears and I talked to a hospice care nurse on duty who gave me pause and support and told me that he wasn't ready yet. He'd eaten and he was conversant, but we did have a bath, which I suggested after he shaved (and he chastised me for not helping him with it ... I had to get mom her breakfast), but I tried to shave him in the bath as I washed his back and I unfortunately caught his chin and we spent a good chunk of time with the styptic pencil to staunch the flow, which we did, but I got to shampoo his little hair and then use the shaving bowl to pour water over his head, repeatedly. He accepted it -- I think, gratefully, as I am sure it felt nice.
Would it be a gift for my father to die on my birthday? I have no idea, but I don't want him to suffer and after reading the immense, calming beauty of the poems that Richard Strauss set to music at age 84, I feel, well, maybe not better but working toward peace. That's what I want my dad to have ... peace.
And that would be the greatest gift imaginable.
And that would be the greatest gift imaginable.
From the Wikipedia link to the "Four Last Songs", the poems and their translations:
1. "Frühling"[edit]
("Spring") (Text: Hermann Hesse)
In dämmrigen Grüften
träumte ich lang von deinen Bäumen und blauen Lüften, Von deinem Duft und Vogelsang.
Nun liegst du erschlossen
In Gleiß und Zier von Licht übergossen wie ein Wunder vor mir.
Du kennst mich wieder,
du lockst mich zart, es zittert durch all meine Glieder deine selige Gegenwart! |
In shadowy crypts
I dreamt long of your trees and blue skies, of your fragrance and birdsong.
Now you appear
in all your finery, drenched in light like a miracle before me.
You recognize me,
you entice me tenderly. All my limbs tremble at your blessed presence! |
Composed: July 20, 1948
2. "September"[edit]
(Text: Hermann Hesse)
Der Garten trauert,
kühl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen. Der Sommer schauert still seinem Ende entgegen.
Golden tropft Blatt um Blatt
nieder vom hohen Akazienbaum. Sommer lächelt erstaunt und matt In den sterbenden Gartentraum.
Lange noch bei den Rosen
bleibt er stehn, sehnt sich nach Ruh. Langsam tut er die müdgeword'nen Augen zu. |
The garden is in mourning.
Cool rain seeps into the flowers. Summertime shudders, quietly awaiting his end.
Golden leaf after leaf falls
from the tall acacia tree. Summer smiles, astonished and feeble, at his dying dream of a garden.
For just a while he tarries
beside the roses, yearning for repose. Slowly he closes his weary eyes. |
Composed: September 20, 1948
3. "Beim Schlafengehen"[edit]
("Going to sleep") (Text: Hermann Hesse)
Nun der Tag mich müd gemacht,
soll mein sehnliches Verlangen freundlich die gestirnte Nacht wie ein müdes Kind empfangen.
Hände, laßt von allem Tun
Stirn, vergiß du alles Denken, Alle meine Sinne nun wollen sich in Schlummer senken.
Und die Seele unbewacht
will in freien Flügen schweben, um im Zauberkreis der Nacht tief und tausendfach zu leben. |
Now that I am wearied of the day,
my ardent desire shall happily receive the starry night like a sleepy child.
Hands, stop all your work.
Brow, forget all your thinking. All my senses now yearn to sink into slumber.
And my unfettered soul
wishes to soar up freely into night's magic sphere to live there deeply and thousandfold. |
Composed: August 4, 1948
4. "Im Abendrot"[edit]
("At sunset") (Text: Joseph von Eichendorff)
Wir sind durch Not und Freude
gegangen Hand in Hand; vom Wandern ruhen wir nun überm stillen Land.
Rings sich die Täler neigen,
es dunkelt schon die Luft. Zwei Lerchen nur noch steigen nachträumend in den Duft.
Tritt her und laß sie schwirren,
bald ist es Schlafenszeit. Daß wir uns nicht verirren in dieser Einsamkeit.
O weiter, stiller Friede!
So tief im Abendrot. Wie sind wir wandermüde-- Ist dies etwa der Tod? |
We have through sorrow and joy
gone hand in hand; From our wanderings, let's now rest in this quiet land.
Around us, the valleys bow
as the sun goes down. Two larks soar upwards dreamily into the light air.
Come close, and let them fly.
Soon it will be time for sleep. Let's not lose our way in this solitude.
O vast, tranquil peace,
so deep in the evening's glow! How weary we are of wandering--- Is this perhaps death? |
Composed: May 6, 1948
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