Why haven't I written? Sometimes it is too painful, sometimes I am too busy, and sometimes I just want to be "normal" and not deal with such writings and thoughts. When I say this I instantly feel remorseful, since I know the day is fast approaching that I won't have the option to write about my experiences with my dad...while he is still alive. I follow this with: "Is he really still alive?" I am unsure how to answer that. He certainly is half alive, if there is such a thing.
This past weekend Jon, I, and the younger kids went down for my step sister's baby shower and to visit with my dad. I am ashamed to say that I don't know what to say to him as he reclines in his leather chair, watching baseball games all day long. He smiles at the kids playing, seeming to take a special liking to Georgia and her exuberance. I want to ask him what he thinks, but fear he won't be able to articulate what I am hoping for. Instead, I feel comforted that my kids have brought him joy during these days. It breaks my heart that they won't know him...truly makes me so sad that I can't begin to address that at this time. I push that to the back of my thoughts.
I am saddened to report that my step mother is feeling burnt out. She doesn't want to undergo another chemo round for him, beginning next week. She mentioned that she doesn't want him to die during Christmas, which is the timeline the doctor's gave him. I don't think she expected to be married to a man who refuses to use the toilet because he is too weak or gets confused and pees in bed, thinking he is in the bathroom. I get the sense she wants permission from me to forgo the chemo. I gave her this permission with a heavy heart. As his primary caregiver, I feel she is best suited to make the call. However I can't help but feel that I am cheating myself and signed his death certificate. My heart aches to imagine a world without him.
He ate fairly well this weekend, enjoying KFC and an extra helping of mashed potatoes and gravy. I hear that he scarfed down a large portion of clams at a clambake they held the night we arrived. His diabetes is worse and his numbers are too high which is causing him to have to take extra shots of insulin. He is stubborn and keeps eating licorice and cookies.
I write about his food habits because I want to remember every minute detail of him. Possibly I will feel lonely and want to eat what he enjoyed, thinking that this will bring me closer to him. I fear these small proclivities are what will be lost in time and I need to document them with these words. I may look back 15 years from now and realize how naive I was. Regardless, it is all I know how to do.
I can write about his dirty and jagged fingernails, but those remind me of his sickness. His hands seem tiny and frail, more like a preteens hands than a man's hand. His eyelashes are sparse, probably as a result of older age and chemo. His teeth embarrass me with their yellowness and obvious crowns. I am ashamed of myself for thinking such thoughts.
Food is easier to write about. I want to remember him and his preferences. I want him to be human, alive, and available. The closest that I can come is through his food.
