The Death Itself

Dad had been suffering from with COPD and Emphysema for over five years. When he was initially diagnosed, he was only given five years, so he lived longer than was expected. Which, to those who knew him, knew that wasn't strange---he had told us that he'd fight it until the end. And he did. The Monday after Thanksgiving, he was admitted into the Hospice House for pain management. He never came home. The week before he died, we were told over and over that this would be it, that this day he'd die, etc. Of course, no one knows but God, but I for one had a hard time accepting the fact that no human could tell me when my dad would die. Tuesday the 15th of December, mom called me at work and told me to come to the HH...dad was asking for me. I left immediately and went in. He wanted to tell me goodbye, to tell me he loved me, and to tell me that he wanted me to take care of mom. And I cried, we all did. And it was downhill from there. Thursday, the 17th, I came into work feeling the urge that I needed to be at HH with dad. And so I left, spending the day there and most of the night. At one point, the staff thought dad's death was imminent and so mom, my brother, and I were in the room with him. Mom and I told daddy that it was okay, that we loved him, that it was okay to leave us. Paul and I left HH at 4 am on Friday and went home to sleep. It snowed that day so we didn't make it back down to HH but mom kept me as informed as she could (the same ole stuff we'd heard time and again). Early Saturday morning (Dec 19) was when we got the call...it was around 6:30am when the phone rang and although Paul answered it, I knew what it was...and I could make out what mom was saying. He'd passed away. Mom had been the courageous soldier, sending everyone home that night and she was there by herself. She'd left the room to get some coffee and toast and when she came back, he wasn't breathing anymore. To be expecting this for so long, it is still such a shock that he really isn't here anymore. I couldn't call him and tell him about my speeding ticket and hear a lecture about how I should know better. I couldn't feel his hugs anymore or hear him tell me he loves me. There are so many things I miss about him, but I miss his advice the most. He would give the greatest advice, trying to be impartial and considering all the angles, and he would tell you what he thought, regardless of what you wanted to hear. He'd be honest...and he'd tell you if he thought you were making a mistake. But he also never failed to let me know how proud he was of me and how he thought I was a good mother. I don't know when I'll ever feel normal and found, instead of abnormal and lost, but I'm sure I'll get there someday. Until then...I will post in this blog. Hopefully, it will be therapeutic.