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.

It isn't the same

Why, when people are trying to comfort me, do they equate my sorrow with another? Tonight my husband referred to a friend's poetic words concerning the loss of his grandmother. I immediately took offense at the assumption that my loss is similar to the loss of one's grandparents. I am sure my husband didn't mean to insinuate that, but it isn't the first time someone has said something similar. It makes me want to scream, "Don't EVER tell me that losing a parent in your thirties is the same!" It is better to say nothing at all.

I want to be all understanding and appreciative but I can't, I just feel angry when people try to equate my loss.

Losing a parent is a loss most deal with, but not in their thirties. It hurts and the future of my dreams and my children's memories are at stake. It does not equate to losing ones grandparent.

Friends

I don't know much of the man that my father is. I know that he doesn't hunt (would never hunt), he abhors cigarette smoke, he enjoys the sun, and he leads a simple and honest life. I believe that you can gain a lot of information from the people who surround someone. The people who complete your life. My dad has friends that he has gathered from every job, every neighbor, and every softball team he has touched. Even three months after his diagnosis, there are still two bouquets of fresh flowers in his home~sent recently with well wishes from concerned friends and co-workers. He is loved and appreciated and I take that as a very large gift of comfort. He is surrounded by goodness.

On a similar note, so am I. Maybe this is his lasting gift that he has bestowed upon me: bring good people into your life, live a simple life, and be grateful.

Driving

My dad's wife, Karen, gave Kate her first driving lesson today. My dad should have been the one teaching her (as he did me) but he is unable to drive on his own. I know it is a little thing, but I just wanted my dad to be able to teach my daughter something. My dad wasn't around much to teach me many skills, but driving was one of those...and it meant a lot to me for him to be able to do the same for Kate. It was one of those bittersweet days: the pang of not seeing my dad waving from the car, but instead sitting inside the garage by himself. I watched my baby grow up today and my dad wasn't able to share in it. That hurt.

Visiting Dad

Today I drove down to see my dad for the first time in 6 weeks. He was sitting in his new leather recliner, warming himself by the fire. He was unable to get up and greet me but smiled from across the way. It breaks my heart to see him so incapacitated. In his previous life, a year ago, he would have done a little jig with his feet and welcomed me with a bear hug. He would have been grabbing every item of my luggage with force~insisting that I not carry anything but my pillow or purse into his home. Those days are gone.

He is bloated, like a bull frog. His neck is puffy and even his eyes seem squinted. His wife says that he has lost alot of weight but he doesn't look like it. She says that he is down to 165 pounds and his legs have atrophied. I believe her, but it is hard to comprehend when his belly is so bloated and his neck so full.

He has developed diabetes from the chemo and now takes insulin. Karen gives him a nightly shot and checks his blood sugar twice a day. This was news to me and I feel so removed from his care. I have a difficult time keeping straight the chemo and non-chemo days, the pills, the side effects.

I ate dinner with him tonight at the table. I find it hard to look into his face. I don't want to cry for the man he has become, but I want to miss this. I feel guilty for thinking such thoughts because I know that all too soon he will be gone.

The bright spot of today was he wanting to go over our cruise excursions together. He had highlighted things he thought that I would like to do. He highlighted a horseback ride on the beach...and so I will go.