Its just me

I couldn’t stop crying.

January 15th he was more alert but the doctors came in and explained everything. He was so undyingly optimistic that it killed me, every step of the way. I remember being pulled into the hallway by his doctor and her explaining more. Then she said “days” and I couldn’t breathe. She discussed DNR with him, which he signed. Then they brought in the “hospice” lady who pulled me out and I remember the nurses running up to me to hold me up. I heard a scream and I’m pretty sure it was mine.

January 16th, we took him home. We sat down with the nurse and again his thought to just “walk around” was killing me.

17th and 18th were filled with family and friends

Then the last good day.

January 19th. He was so tired from being up for 12+ hours so he was in and out. But we laid down, watched movies, ate ice cream, laughed and just spent time together. The best last day with my dad.

The 20th he had his procedure and used what was left of his strength to get himself inside the house without my help. Then he laid down and didn’t really get up again.

That night he went to bed in his room, he closed his eyes and I never saw his eyes again.

He died around 3 in the morning on January 24th.

I feel. Dark. Like Ive never seen the sun and my mind is lost because of it.

Does that make sense?

I can’t sleep. My mind doesn’t stop. My mind isn’t my own at the moment and it means it never quiets. A million different thoughts in the blink of a moment and I can’t quiet it.

I haven’t slept.

I’m trying to get better. To be better. Mostly because this is the part where everyone stops checking on you. They stop being concerned by your loss and just move forward and are wondering why you aren’t either.

My mind isn’t my own. It never quiets. It’s never silent. And now the grief is too much. The alone is too much. Every bad thought I ever had about myself is right at the front of my mind and all it does is circle.

I’ve missed him for days as he became this shell of himself. Someone who doesn’t recognize me, someone who was once strong as an ox no longer have the strength to do a simple movement like open his eyes. It’s devastating.

But I think in one last act of love, my dad spared me the shitty parts of caring for someone who is transitioning to the next life.

My dad was in no pain. He breathed on his own until his last breath. He required no clean up in the end. Just some assistance moving. My dad gave me a peaceful ending to his life.

And I feel immensely loved and seen for that gift.