Early morning sunshine fills the room. Rainbow prismatic fireflies dance about on the walls and sheets, sometimes forming a halo around the still figure in the bed. A crow complains beyond.
His world has become very small but sometimes is filled with dogs and people communing around him. The ceiling fan purrs and the curtains murmur; the room has a chill despite the season. The air must be kept circulating to rid it of the sickly sweet smell of ketosis.
His breathing has a new pattern, more off than on. Funny what we can get used to. Those long pauses alarmed us at first but are now commonplace. Conversation will stop as breathing stops. We wait, all of us instinctively taking in large breaths for him.
His eyes might flutter open but are mostly either closed or half open. He doesn't see us any longer. Without any medication for several days, his body is nearly frozen. Without water for three, his mouth has a terrible dryness that we try to ease for him with moistened sponges. He seems oblivious to that discomfort. Except for the erratic, sometimes noisy flow of air in and out of his lungs, he is silent.
The only anguish he might display is a grimace or two when we try to bathe him, now most definitely a two-person task. His rigid body wants to refuse our manipulations. Developing bedsores are covered with special rubbery bandages. We are reluctant to subject him to what now seems to be an uncomfortable procedure. I find myself whispering apologies in his ear, wishing I could somehow make this better.
His life hangs by a sigh.