olsen

Alone, I found my way to him. I walked into the room, and there he was. Still.

Too still.

Pale, scruffy, with a green palour to his skin, as if his whole body had bruised and healed in a nasty way. He didn't move. I touched his hand. Cold. I shook it.

"Dad, guess what? I'm here." No response.

No response. Not a twitch, a murmer, a stir, a tilt of the neck, a smack of the lips.

I shook his hand. It felt rubbery and inanimate.

"Dad! Wake Up!!"

Not a sign of life.

It was like I was staring death in the face. And death was too still. Would not look back.

I gave up. I breathed. I sat in the chair.

He lay still.

Still.

I opened my book. I picked my nose. I stared. For 2 hours, he did not move a muscle. I cannot tell you how unnerving total stillness is in a human being.

Hours later he stirred and awoke. "Hey Bree."

A few words aloud, then 10 minutes of snoring. Words, then sleep. Words, sleep.

He can't connect 4 large dots on a paper. He cannot walk. He cannot complete a preschooler's maze. He cannot control his left hand - it dangles limply near his face, like a middle school impression of the retarded kid.

But when asked for words that begin with M, he included Malcontent and Misanthrope, along with all the others. And when asked to name animals, he stuck the Sphinx in between Lions and Foxes.