1/31/1997

     My father was admitted to the hospital last night. Emergency Room, then room 4B20. And now he lies here with me. Vannessa has gone home to pick up some things and call his older brother Tom and his younger brother Jim. The last journal entry concerned the death (or at least my notification of the death) of Jerome Garcia. Named for Jerome Kern, American songwriter. Now - the impending death of Charles Carroll Carr, named for Charles Carroll, American patriot, looms large.

     Will I only write about death, dying, and the notification of same(?) Good question. At least I have the urge to put pen to paper and he would be proud. Is proud - too early for the past tense. 

     The journal began in an idyllic, innocent fashion - on vacation, the Stephen Taber, remember? Kept it up for a week after, then nothing. Jerry passed and my life changed in ways that now I can appreciate. They were family too me - The Dead, Deadheads. Family I lacked. Now a genuine family member, my Dad (remember?) lies here with me. Again I feel like writing.

     Cancer - radiation treatments that enclosed the holidays in an unusual gloom. They would end soon, he would get better - right? Wrong.

     If anything, they were the beginning of the end. (This is the end - right?) We endured, together, a forced cheerfulness, yet at least together. A routine evolved: pick up, park the car, treatment, breakfast and drop off. Talk of Jazz, politics and young James - his other son, my half-brother. (God - what an awkward term!)

     Once finished, my involvement anyway, (James was home, able to help) we drifted slightly apart. Christmas Day we spent together, the first one in a long time. The last I remember him being him (you know - My Dad).

     Then quickly, way too quickly, a downward spiral that landed us, together again, here. Punctuated, News Of The World style, by ominous bulletins - he was disoriented, he fell, six times, he fell into the English Muffin display at the supermarket. (Thomas’s? I didn’t ask . . .) Vannessa, poor Vannessa, let’s do something.

     She did, and here we are.

[Fragment of a Journal I can only vaguely remember. Typed verbatim 7/25/2016. Attempts to locate the Stephen Taber entries proceed.]