Today I sat at my parents dinner table, eating a dinner my sister in law and I had lovingly prepared, watching my dad nibble at a few morsels, talking to his mom on the phone, desperate for her son to be able to come to her house on Thanksgiving, dad giving the phone away early so his mom wouldn’t hear him cry, me unwilling to discipline my kids for misbehaving because I don’t want my last Thanksgiving dinner with my dad to be tainted by the mundane. I’m told be thankful for the years, days, months, hours you’ve had with him. Remember all the good times. Cherish the moments you have with him and make memories. I can’t. I’m filled with anxiety. My heart feels like it won’t stop racing.
My kids play, my dad sits, white, bald, quiet, mourning. I’m watching him live in a subpar life. He can’t play. He wants to hide his oxygen from the kids. We discuss doing things to make his life easier. He hears changes we are making, work we’ll be doing, without his help because he’s too weak to participate. Every word we utter, every movement we make is somehow in response to his illness. Our being here is because he’s dying. Our google searches are to designed to purchase products to address symptoms of his dying.
I walked into this house excited today, pleased to provide a Thanksgiving meal. He couldn’t stand to greet me. I hear his voice now and all I think of is when won’t I. His light is fading. His emotions are fading. I look in his chair and I can now picture him not in it. I can see the after. He’s caving in and I absolutely can’t stand it. I’m not happy to be here. I don’t want to see this. I don’t want this to happen. My stomach is twisted. My limbs feel heavy. My heart pounds. I feel sick. I feel his sickness.
I am not thankful.