My dad’s life story may be nearing an end.

He is resting reasonably comfortably, although an occasional moan will emerge as if, somewhere, he’s feeling pain or discomfort. But he really hasn’t been coherent the last couple of days, at least not during the time I’ve spent at his bedside. There are periods where he is unresponsive, his eyes, only partially open, don’t seem to be looking at this world. Then there are moments when he opens his eyes, looks up, and says, “hello, Ian,” before drifting off into space again.

Yesterday I arrived late in the afternoon and stopped to sign in the visitor log. There I ran into one of the staff whose job keeps her in contact with all the residents. She was looking at my dad’s medical charts.

He’s been refusing food the last two times I’ve been here at meal time, and I asked if that had changed.

She shook her head. “It happens,” she said, referring to the loss of appetite and refusal to eat. The hospice folks had left a sheet of paper alongside his bed containing a discussion of food and eating, or not eating. It’s one of those things that is very disturbing to family members, but is fairly common. Kate knew she didn’t have to repeat all of this.

“He’s strong, your father. Probably all those years being athletic,” she said. Repeating herself: “He’s still strong.”

“And now it works against him,” I answered.

She got my unstated message. He’s unfortunately still too strong to go quickly or easily.

Kate shook her head. “Because he was so athletic, he wouldn’t want to be left like this.” She’s right again.

I always thought that one day he would go out in his boat several miles offshore, jump into the ocean, scrub the bottom of the boat, and then just let himself drift off. But by the time he might have seen what was ahead, he was no longer able to operate the boat on his own and instead had to rely on younger crew members. His window of opportunity had passed.

Then there was the day I found his old police department pistols in a bag on a shelf in his closet, along with a stash of old bullets. He was already showing symptoms of dementia, and I don’t even know if he remembered the guns. But paranoia got the best of me, and I lifted the bag and its contents off the shelf, took them out to the car, and turned them in at the police station. Probably unnecessary, but best not to have to worry.

But now he’s beyond all that. He can barely muster the energy to lift his hand to his face, or lift a napkin the six inches or so from his chest to the rolling table where a glass of milk and a can of high protein drink have been left.

He was asleep when I got to his bed. The other three beds in the room were empty, their occupants out in the common room where dinner was being served.

I rubbed his shoulder, his arm, his hand, signaling my presence while saying hello. His eyelids quivered, then lifted slightly, barely opening a slit for his eye to peer out at the world. We didn’t connect.

I told him that one of his oldest friends had been there to see him earlier in the day. He and Wally must have met very soon after my dad arrived in Honolulu in 1939, and they went on to found the Waikiki Surf Club soon after the end of WWII.

“Wally came to see you today,” I said in a voice louder than necessary, I’m sure. He looked up at me, his eyes blank. “He’s your oldest friend, and it was very nice of him to visit.”

I don’t know if any of this was getting through.

Then he tried to say something, but even leaning over his bed to get me ear close to his mouth, I couldn’t make out the word or words. His voice is hoarse because the oxygen tends to dry out his throat. It’s an effort to get the words out, and I feel bad that I can’t understand what he’s trying to say. It’s hard for both of us, I think.

I tell him that it’s okay, that I’m here, that he can just relax, although he’s more collapsed than relaxed, even with the medication he’s getting for pain and anxiety.

I stayed around for a while, just in case he could sense my presence. I don’t know if he did or not.

Then I slipped away, leaving him to his somewhat restless drifting.