J.B. expertly maneuvered his mother's wheelchair in such a way to keep her focused on the neatly landscaped lawn. Her moments of lucidity were rare and unpredictable, but there was no sense taking risks; this morning's task needed as smooth a passage as possible for both mother and son.
Later that same morning, coworkers commiserated and offered the hollow support typical of near-strangers. Breakroom chit-chat centered on aging parents with Alzheimer's or heart disease or cancer. No one it seemed, wished to spend the end of their own life in a convalescent facility, like just so much old and yellowed newspaper, outdated and waiting for the recycle bin. J.B., nodding in agreement, explained the predicament of finding safe and humane care for his disabled mother. He jovially boasted aloud that when "his time" came, he wanted to be dancing, spinning 'round with a pretty girl in his arms to a nice Texas two-step or push.
Staid bean-counter by day, bachelor urban cowboy by night, J.B. kept busy with country and western dance lessons. A website connected him to all sorts of lady partners, and he regaled anyone who tarried overlong in his presence with stories of lively women and fancy footwork. Most every disc drive in the office had spun at least one of his personally burned cd's of country and western chart toppers. A homely middle-aged man, J.B. could transpose himself while gliding on sawdust; sweet chords from twin fiddles and steel guitars the magic ingredients to a secret charm potion.
Two days had passed since his mother's change of abode; no major events, no midnight teary phonecalls. An only child, the decision was his to make without consultations or compromise. All the proper legal paperwork had been completed, and he was satisfied everything was as it should be; had to be.
Just the way love goes, babe.
J.B. was looking forward to this evening's pleasure, a chance to unwind for a while with good western music and fast-steppin' women. As usual, his dance card was filled and he was familiar with the house band. Writing down a few personal song choices on the back of a Lone Star beer cardboard coaster, he slipped it and a $5 tip to the band member wearing a smart black Peters Brothers stetson.
The band was really kickin', and they were doing a sweet rendition of Brad Paisley's "Hold Me in Your Arms (and Let Me Fall)". Just as the second chorus was approaching and in mid-twirl of his lithe blonde partner, J.B. felt the first twinge of pain sear across his ribcage and into his shoulder.
The EMT tech said there was nothing to be done, no lifesaving last minute heroics were necessary - a bicuspid aortic heart valve whose time had run out - a last dance for life.
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