As dad got closer to the end, he kept losin’ more and more of his words. The cancer was really eatin’ them up now . . ., one right after the other. Eventually he was down to just a few words and grunts. Alice and mom would go visit him and no matter what they said, his answer would be the same: “Hells bells,” “Cigarette,” “Uh uh,” or “Augh,” etc. Lots of times he wouldn’t say anything at all . . . just lay there starin’ at the ceiling. By November, he’d pretty well quit eatin’. They tried to feed him Thanksgiving dinner and they said it was like tryin’ to feed a baby that hadn’t learned to swallow. Come December, dad couldn’t sit up without bein’ strapped to his chair. I don’t believe he was speakin’ at all by then. Alice and mom said they went up there on his birthday and found him in the hall. Someone had left him there, starin’ out the window. He didn’t seem to know who they were. On the 22nd, the nursing home called. A lady said, “He don’t seem too good today.” Alice hurried right over there. The lobby was decorated for Christmas. There were colorful paper cut outs everywhere and they’d put up a pretty tree with bright lights. Grade school kids were singing “Come All Ye Faithful.” Dad was in his room sittin’ in his wheel chair. “Daddy daddy,” Alice exclaimed, “Let me push you down the hall so you can hear the Christmas Carols,” And dad who didn’t seem to understand a thing and who hadn’t even spoken a word in weeks, threw his head back, opened his mouth and growled real loud, “NO!” That was the last word that he ever spoke. Dad died the next day.