November 19, 2011

Dear Dad,

It's often late at night that this ball of anxiety and nervousness takes up residence in my chest, I almost can't breathe from the pressure. Then it turns into restlessness, which causes me to drive mindlessly around until I feel ok enough to maybe sleep. I hate leaving you but sometimes, I just have to get out of here. I know you understand, you are the same way. Getting the hell out of dodge is sometimes the best solution to a problem. It's also at night that I try to imagine your funeral and what it will be like. Will anyone attend? Will anyone send flowers? How will all of us make it through? So many questions and not a single answer that makes me feel better.

Your decline is astonishing because I think we had actually convinced ourselves that you aren't dying. You've outlived the two week prediction by the hospice we fired but as we come upon the month prediction from your oncologist, I freak out a little. It seems like it might be accurate and that scares the fuck out of me. I'm sitting here right now listening to your oxygen machine, hearing it's intake and outtake makes me want to throw up because it reminds me of your time in the ICU after your stroke. I'm glad it helps you but I dread the day it doesn't. The house is full of medical equipment: a wheelchair, an oxygen tank on wheels, a nebulizer, a suction machine...visible reminders of the truth we so desperately want to ignore. 

The past couple of days have been a sharp decline. You stare blankly a lot and rarely respond to us unless you nod for more pain medicine. You're too weak to cough up normal saliva and can barely sip water. I hate it. I hate it for you because I can see it in your eyes that you aren't ready for any of this, you don't want to leave us. You hate that this is what your life is like now, that this is how you are dying. I see it and I wish I could make it all better for you. I promise that Heaven will be amazing, you won't hurt or be sad. I hear it's paradise and that you feel nothing but peace, joy, and love. I know you will be thrilled to be with Grandpa again and your uncle and your own grandparents too. I know you'll be able to run and play baseball again, hear Elvis give a concert, and float on a cloud. Believe it or not, that is actually comforting to me.

But, I also know that you will miss us. Because we will be missing you so incredibly much too. I also know that your love for us won't stop because neither will our love for you. I know we'll see you again one day and that you'll have the biggest grin to greet us when we get to Heaven. I just wish you didn't have to go yet. I wish that you could stay and continue loving us here. I'd give anything for that, anything.

I just have one request, when you get to Heaven, can you ask God to send C and me a baby?

1 comment:

  1. I am so sorry that you are going through this pain. I cannot imagine. I'm thinking of you.