Club

There is a weird club that I am wanting to be part of: the dying parent club and no one who hasn't experienced it is allowed. I am being melodramatic but I truly notice a deep desire to connect with others who have gone through this. I immediately feel a kinship and sense of empathy. I feel closer to them because we share this horrible bond. I look at the words that I just typed "horrible bond" and wonder if I am being dramatic again. Death is inevitable, so it shouldn't be a surprise. In the end, we all die, but it just feels so isolating to keep living long after your loved one's pass. Feeling a sense of aloneness that hasn't hit me with the deaths of other family members.

This parent dying thing sucks. Death forces most to look at their mortality, but a parents death causes you to examine deeper. You are now alone in the world, without your parents (hopefully) undying support and love. It feels very isolating. The ripple's of their death go far beyond me and touch my children's lives. This is one of the aspects that hurt the most. My youngest children will never know the man who was my father. They will always be grandfather less on their mom's side. It isn't fair and my heart aches for their ignorance of this great man.

Scared

Though I am scared and terribly saddened by my dad's upcoming death, I am also frightened by how it will change me.

Will it make me colder, less flexible, less compromising in life. Will I live life with a, "Life's too short" philosophy; abandoning my marriage and cares? Or will I secretly begin to resent my husband more; for all of the ways he is unlike my peaceful and centered father? Will I seek out men with these qualities, hoping to feel a piece of my dad surrounding me? I am fearful of the unknown and concerned how his death will rock my world.

I can't lose this loving man in my life. He is the opposite of all the masculine cliche's. He is calm, fun, open minded, and settled. He doesn't make jokes about politics, hunting, and women (at least never in front of me). He may laugh at some jokes...but he never initiates. He is patient with kids, spending much of his career counseling young kids and teens. He is goodness and I always knew he would become a better grandfather than father. He doesn't have the chance, now, and that makes me so mournful for all of us.

Hospice

This picture was taken of my dad in August 2007 at our first ever Linville Family Reunion. He looks so happy, don't you think?

I just received a cell phone message from Karen telling me that she needed to talk to me and that my dad was now on hospice. She said his health had really declined and needed to let me know what was going on. I called her back, but she didn't answer.

I had a mini breakdown over this. The kind where the sobs come out in whimpers. I feel so anguished and alone. I am frustrated with myself for not spending more time with him in January, asking him all the things I had to time to ask him then. He isn't able to hold a coherent question at this point and I missed my window. I wish someone would have told me to stay with him. I wish someone would have insisted on this.

I plan to travel back down this weekend. The question becomes as to whether I should take the kids or not. I suppose he I will ask Karen about this and proceed from there.

It is interesting how I avoid calling. Maybe because I don't know her that well, possibly because it is painful to face, and I will let myself off the hook a bit and say that I am busy with three kids and a family. I know that I will read this words months and years from now and frown at how little I called. I don't forgive myself for this.

Confused

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.

Day 2: Cruise

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.

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.

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.