Sunday I drove and I drove hoping to make it to my father’s bedside in time. Time to say goodbye. Time to say I love you. Everything had gone downhill again so fast. There was no time.
Monday dad sat in the living room eating a sandwich and some popcorn. I sit beside him joking as we do, slack jawed. I’m watching a lie. A promise that won’t be kept. How can I trust it? How can I treat this man in front of me like my dad when just yesterday his body was failing. I hate this.
I joke with him. I tell stories. He tells stories. I watch him get loaded with drugs. I see him graying and sipping broth. I’m told “he had such a great day” but I don’t care. His last days aren’t my days. They’re not the days that matter to me. I’m told to tell him every last thing that matters. Let my heart speak. But why? To watch him cry as we both try to squeeze in all the things we should have said? To cause him pain as the guilt he feels for leaving us and the anger he feels for being forced to leave drive him forward?
Today I met with a funeral director. We spoke of administrative items, veterans affairs, cremation, wakes. He was fantastic. A fantastic man doing an impossible job impeccably and I couldn’t give a shit. I’m picturing introducing this man to my dad. To say, this will be the man to undress and bathe your dead body, the man to place you comfortably in a flammable box in which you will then be burned. This is the man that will be able to see your family even after you are dead. This is the man that has all you want in his hands and he’s done no work for it, he hasn’t earned us as a family as you have, he isn’t worthy of us as my dad is and still, this man, this stranger, will comfort us after your passing.
I understand this fury, this fear, this jealousy, this horrible sadness at being left behind. As the last second his heart beats and ours continue on without him. I understand this. But still, he had a good day.
I am so scared. And I’m full of guilt because I don’t want him to be dying. I hate his pain. I hate his dependence. I hate his color. I hate his hair. I hate every part of him that isn’t right but I still can’t be the bigger person. I want him dying rather than dead.