Saturday, April 17, 2010
Not because I am worried about what anyone will think. That others may judge me for writing about something so personal in such a public forum. Or, that they will judge the writing itself.
I already know I am incapable of finding an "eloquent" way to convey what it feels like to be losing not only a father, but a friend, a mentor and my hero.
The reason I have tried to keep the mood here light and not write the words, "my father is dying" is because I was afraid he would read it.
Always supportive, Dad was one of my first "followers" here. He didn't say much about it but I knew he was always reading along. It never failed to make me smile when I saw the IP address labeled "Daddy" come up in my StatCounter report. Sometimes several times on one post or even several times in a day. Although he was 1500 miles away, I could almost hear him say, "Hey little kid. I'm thinkin' of you."
Even after his "diagnosis," I'd been thinking he might get better enough to get back online. So, I didn't want him to read anything here that would make him think I had ever lost hope.
But now, the sad reality is that he will never get back here. He won't be reading this.
He won't be doing so many things that he used to enjoy. Even something as simple as the taste of his mother's meatball recipe has already become a tarnished memory.
The hospice nurse told us that this diseased distortion of taste is a "normal part of the process." Knowing that doesn't help.
Since my father got sick just a few short weeks ago, the list of things cancer has stolen from him has rapidly gotten longer. It's been like torture, especially knowing how keenly aware he has been throughout this entire process.
There isn't much worse than having someone you love so much - your hero - look at you and say, "I'm scared."
And there is nothing you can say back to make it better. It's a pain which will never be cured but is sure to end in the saddest way possible.
Tonight, my sister and I finally decided to give in to the hospice nurses' advice and give him some liquid morphine. Watching him doze in and out of reality, finally "comfortable" in the borrowed hospital bed in his own room, I sit here wondering what else is left?
What else can cancer take away from him in the process of taking his life? In the process of ripping him from my life.
This will never be okay with me.
Update: Dad lost his battle on April 24, 2010; exactly one week after I wrote this. The support and sense of community shared with me has been absolutely amazing. Thank you so much.