Today I invited my dad to high tea. I was pleased that he wanted to go and that he was so excited. I picked him up in his wheelchair and wheeled him to the tea room. The entire way, while pushing him, tears streamed down my face. I see all of these able bodied elderly who are so unlike him. He is weak and withered. He can't get out of any chair without help, and even then it takes him at least 30 seconds to move around. He shakes and is so gone.
We spent 30 minutes at tea and he ate two plates of sweets. I don't care that he has diabetes, I just want to please him. He is dying and if I can make any moment a little sweeter (no pun intended :) I will. I will get him anything he wants. Sadly, all he really seems to want is to sleep. His time is fast approaching and it very apparent to me that his body wants to go. He isn't hungry, isn't even thirsty. His body has given up.
I love this man and it brings me pain to watch him wither. I have taken to kissing his tumor scar on a few occasions. It is as long as my index finger and travels horizontally on his speckled bald head. I can't kiss it and instead kiss near it. It scares and upsets me.
After tea I tucked him into bed with extra blankets. I have said goodbye to the child I once was, only a few short months ago. The child who could run home if I ever needed help. He has become the child and I am his keeper. It is unsettling.
The irony of life is how quick it all goes; how fast our children grow and how our health is stolen from us without a fight. My dad has been robbed and I have become fatherless.
It is so painful to watch and sometimes I feel like I am living outside of my body.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Cruise
I had a mini breakdown today. More like a big breakdown, though I hate to admit it. While checking in for our cruise, I felt so helpless. My father is so feeble and it breaks my heart to see his hands shaking, watch his vacant stare, and witness him unable to walk. We didn't have a wheelchair for him to board the cruise (but do on the ship) and that was a huge mistake. He could barely walk and I know it was like climbing Mt. Everest for him to walk the "plank" for lack of a better word.
I want to scream at all of the people who I witness be so self centered around him. He is obviously unwell, bent over a cane, and they storm by him trying to jump onto an elevator or beat him to his place in line. Don't they see? Of course they don't, and I curse their ignorance. Or, maybe I am jealous of it.
I wish I could report I had some relevations from my father. Mostly we sit in silence. He stares into space. I try and bring up happy memories for him and reassure him that I am thankful for the example he provided me; traveling to Mexico and golfing on Pebble Beach. He is just a shell of his former self and I know that he wouldn't want to see the man he has become. In some ways, his death will bring him peace.
I have a well in my throat writing those words: "His death..."
Tonight, at dinner, he had a diarrhea accident. Karen had to take him back to the room and change his diaper. I welled up with tears at the table and hoped no one noticed. It breaks my heart to part with this once strong and vibrant man.
I want to scream at all of the people who I witness be so self centered around him. He is obviously unwell, bent over a cane, and they storm by him trying to jump onto an elevator or beat him to his place in line. Don't they see? Of course they don't, and I curse their ignorance. Or, maybe I am jealous of it.
I wish I could report I had some relevations from my father. Mostly we sit in silence. He stares into space. I try and bring up happy memories for him and reassure him that I am thankful for the example he provided me; traveling to Mexico and golfing on Pebble Beach. He is just a shell of his former self and I know that he wouldn't want to see the man he has become. In some ways, his death will bring him peace.
I have a well in my throat writing those words: "His death..."
Tonight, at dinner, he had a diarrhea accident. Karen had to take him back to the room and change his diaper. I welled up with tears at the table and hoped no one noticed. It breaks my heart to part with this once strong and vibrant man.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
My birthday
My birthday was really hard on me. There was no phone call from my dad, just a card inscribed with a scribbled hand, "love you always, Dad." I appreciate the thought, the time it took to write, but it isn't his handwriting. It isn't him and it makes me cry.
I went to the chiropractor and sobbed the entire way home. Probably because I was alone in the car, it was a beautiful sunny day (which just makes me feel sadder for his upcoming loss of life) and I am stressed beyond belief. I literally sobbed while driving, tears streaming down my face. I am so devestated that this is it. How can that be? It seems surreal and too sharp, painful all at once.
I most likely will never have a birthday with my daddy. Even though we didn't spend many birthdays together...did we ever? I still am beyond sad that I will never get the possibility to. When my dad was healthy I had choices and possibilities. Those were stolen from me in December and I will never be the same again.
I went to the chiropractor and sobbed the entire way home. Probably because I was alone in the car, it was a beautiful sunny day (which just makes me feel sadder for his upcoming loss of life) and I am stressed beyond belief. I literally sobbed while driving, tears streaming down my face. I am so devestated that this is it. How can that be? It seems surreal and too sharp, painful all at once.
I most likely will never have a birthday with my daddy. Even though we didn't spend many birthdays together...did we ever? I still am beyond sad that I will never get the possibility to. When my dad was healthy I had choices and possibilities. Those were stolen from me in December and I will never be the same again.
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