The last of the Don posts.

Sam and I had been debating if there was any polite way to cut our trip short. When I mentioned it to Ron, I could tell that he really didn't want us to leave. He pointed out that us being there is a highlight in Don's routine. Last year, a lot of people came down to see him, but now that the immediate crisis is over, these visits have tapered off. I'm guilty of it, too.

We decided to stay. It's a mitzvah to spend time with the sick after all. Not that I'm trying to win points with God or anything, but there is wisdom in these old traditions.

Don had been saying that he wanted to go out dancing that night. None of us really felt like going. It's not that I'm embarrassed to be with him in public, though that I know that Ron has a hard time with that. It's just so much work to take him anywhere. It's a huge production and he doesn't make it any easier. Whenever we go anywhere, I feel like Ron and I flit around him constantly, complying with his needs. Plus, we knew that Ron was taking him to see The Faint on Sunday night.

We tried to hide our lack of enthusiasm, but apparently not very well. Don eventually capitulated.

We sat down for yet another meal of matzah.

Sam and I were really surprised by how helpless Don made himself. He didn't know where his pills are kept. He wouldn't even get up to refill his own glass of water. He reminded Ron constantly to get him his tissues, his sweater, his cane... He wanted me to fix his dinner for him. Sam and I had snuck out for Pizza Hut earlier on, so I wasn't particulary hungry. I set up Don's plate for him -- arranging his place setting, re-filling his beverages, cutting up his food for him and spreading chopped liver on his matzah. Chopped liver is disgusting and for this reason I sort of enjoy dealing with it. I really love grossing myself out.

Soon I was plenty grossed out. As usual, Don's food was dribbled all over the table, his sweater, his hands and smeared all over his face. He seems to be completely unconcerned about the niceties of social graces. He gets mad if you touch him without telling him first (which is completely understandable) and doesn't like it when we tell him to wipe off his face. It just becomes easier to not deal.

After the meal we decided to play Trivial Pursuit.

Unlike most games that require logic and/or spatial acumen, I am pretty good at Trivial Pursuit. I was looking forward to kicking some ass. Sure enough I was off to a nice head start with two slices of the pie before Sam started to catch up to me. I kept landing on orange (sports) which is my trivia Achille's heel. But no matter about my progress in the game. I soon realized that we hadn't really considered how apparent it would be that Don was a little slower than he used to be. It felt like stopping the game would draw more attention to the issue than to just continue. Instead, I found myself giving him broad and obvious hints whenever I read him his questions.

We were headed pell-mell into disaster.

At some point midway through the game, the four of us were having a great Jewish time arguing about a question or its answer -- it matters not-- all of us flourishing our hands and screeching at each other across the table. Don was in the middle of making some point when he suddenly let out a huge hiccup.

Without further warning, he vomited the entire contents of his belly all over the table in three successive heaves. I was sitting to his right when this happened. The puke spewed out of his mouth in three liver-colored columns. We were all frozen in horror for a few long seconds -- Sam and I happened to lock eyes over the table -- and then jumped to our feet squealing.

Ron, having presumably dealt with this situation before, ran and got a roll of paper towels. Sam and I huddled in the furtherest corner of the kitchen overcome with the jeebies. "Did you see the three separate tunnels...?" and then because we both knew we had, we shivered and winced like retards. I actually ran into the living room and stared unseeingly at the framed
Marc Chagall prints for a while.

In the dining room, the barf kept on coming. Ron was dabbing it up as it came. Don was overtaken by a coughing fit, his body spasming uncontrollably. Then it was over.

Don just sat back not speaking, while the three of us dealt with the mess. Ron pretty much swabbed off the tablecloth as best he could and then was ready to call it clean. Sam was having none of that and lifted the cloth up. Underneath, the puke had seeped through the lacey cut-outs and was leaking through the table's seam onto the floor. While Sam and Ron tore the tablecloth off the table, I raced out to the garage in search of cleanser, disinfectant and furniture polish. We debated about what to do with the sopping tablecloth, but eventually just left in a sticky heap on top of the washing machine. Eva is very particular about cleanliness (she's the kind of woman who won't have the cleaning lady over until the house is spotless), so I didn't want to mess around.

Back in the dining room, Don was calmly sitting at the table. He wanted a glass of water and a napkin and his special throat lozenges. Without further discussion, we resumed the game. Thankfully, the Trivial Pursuit board hadn't been involved in the carnage.

Later, Eva and Moshe came home. Eva was triumphant, having won at canasta, again. (She is quite the gambler, I understand). We dutifully kept playing, though our hearts weren't in it anymore. Truthfully, the game can get kind of boring -- there's not enough risk involved -- and it was painful to keep dishing out pie to everyone but Don. Sam eventually won.

The next morning, we packed up while everyone was still asleep. We went into Don's room to kiss him goodbye. He was still sleeping. Eva, Moshe and Ron came down to send us off.

It was Easter Sunday and everything was quiet and still in Orange County.