Timing Is Everything

"Dying is easy.  Comedy is hard." Who knows who said it first.  Many have taken credit.  All I know is, Peter O'Toole said it in, "My Favorite Year." And yet, sometimes the reverse is true. "Comedy is easy. Dying is hard." So it goes in a condo on the Westside, every day a rewrite of the day before, another stage described in the hospice pamphlet.  The comedy writer was ready to go.  His bags were packed, his flight on time. He said his goodbyes, promised to keep in touch somehow. An occasional guest appearance, nothing too spooky, of course.  We lean toward panic. A flickering light. A fallen photograph. Maybe something a bit more dramatic. After all, he has a lot to live up to, in that regard. My mom let her presence be known during the eldest's bar mitzvah. As we said kaddish for her, we had an earthquake at the precise moment we said her name. That's a tough act to follow. And yet, for reasons that remain mysterious, just like life itself, the departure date keeps changing. Thank God for that, or whoever's up there, pulling the strings. As they say in comedy, timing is everything.  It's not his time. Not quite yet.  He's on standby. Settling in, resting up in his new comfy mechanical bed, one the few things he can still control.   "Sorry I'm such a dud," he said yesterday, fighting to keep his eyes open.  Nothing could be farther from the truth, Daddy.