"Pimp my walker"

Michael has gotten so weak that he can't walk on his own. He needs help standing up. The hospice nurse suggested we get a hospital bed because it's adjustable and easier to get out of, and she suggested a walker. He doesn't like needing help. It's a little humiliating he says.

So we opted for the hospital bed and the walker.

I got a walkie-talkie set so he can call me if I'm out of earshot, and he cussed into it to make sure it worked. I was in the kitchen, baking bread for him, making applesauce from scratch because he asked for it, when the walkie-talkie crackled and I heard him cuss. I cussed back, and heard, "Oh cool. It works."

James got here last night and Janet came out early this morning. Shannon and the kids got here this afternoon. She brought a box of old family pictures and the ones of my father of a toddler (taken in 1923) looked just like her little Liam. The ones of my sister looked just like Cassie. The Boyd genes are strong.

The bed and the walker didn't arrive until 6, just before a few friends from Savannah arrived to spend an hour or so with him.

After they left, we tried out the walker and he was pretty steady with it. James talked about getting a little horn for it and maybe some streamers.

"Yup," Michael said. "Pimp my walker."

We talked a little bit today about spending this time together. He thought it was kind of me to go to all this trouble. Kind. Right.

This is a holy time. He is coming to the end of his life. Of course I want to spend these days with him. I want to hold onto his humor and share in his sadness. I want to celebrate his life with him.

And I really do want to help pimp his walker. I'm thinking racing stripes.