7.16.23
For four more hours I can say that he was alive last year. For four more hours.

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@laststephtonowhere
7.16.23
For four more hours I can say that he was alive last year. For four more hours.

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7.23.23
Happy birthday, dad.
I haven’t forgotten you.
1.14.22
The thought keeps creeping in. She’d have to come, right? She’d have to call? If I got hurt, just enough, badly enough, if something happened - she’d show up, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?
But it’s been two months since she’s responded to anything, and I have to remember.
Mom is gone, too. Mom is gone too.
12.17.22
Sometimes I think all I am, all that’s left of me now, is grief. Grief for dad. Grief for Abbie. Grief for the house. Grief for mom. Grief for home. Grief for everything that already wasn’t, grief for everything that will never be.
It’s the undercurrent in everything, a blob of grief pretending to be a human.
All I hear is I can’t imagine, how strong you must be, you can get through this.
But I watched dad die my entire life, then all at once. We never had last words. I don’t remember the last time he spoke because in that last week, he didn’t. I rubbed his hands and feet, pooled with blood after so long staying still. If only I could give him a few days of mine. Just a little bit longer. Just to pretend.
I almost called mom yesterday. Old habits - to see how they were doing, to ask if dad was awake. But it’s been 22 Saturdays since he stopped breathing, and 33 days since she’s messaged me back.
There’s no pretending anymore. It’s all gone.
Dad dying is the most normal thing that’s happened.
That’s what I keep repeating, at least. I watch him die. Is that normal? It was just me in that room. Always, just me.
I went to talk to him, before he died. That morning the nurses came in, voices low, solemn faced. It won’t be long, she said. If there’s anything you need to say, you should say it. He might be holding on for something.
They left the room. Paul excused himself to the bathroom.
I went to dad.
Hi, dad. It’s me. It’s Stephanie. I’m here, like I promised. I’m here. I’m here.
It’s okay, okay? It’s okay if you have to rest. I’ll take care of mom. I’ll look out for Nicci and the kids. And I’ll… it’s like you said. I’m the one you don’t have to worry about.
I’m here, okay?
I’m here. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.
I went back to my air mattress and texted my mom.
No answer.
Ten minutes later, Paul went to the bathroom again.
I got up, and made my way to the bed.
There was so little of him left.
“Hey, dad…?”
He took a breath.
“…dad?”
Stillness.
Just like that.
I knew. I hated knowing. But his breath had been so irregular, his movements so sudden - maybe this was just another scare, just give him a second, maybe
but my heart knew there’s no more maybes. There’s no being a better person than he was. There’s no comfort, no advice, no moment of being seen.
I cried before I knew I was crying.

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10.12.22
“I think we lost Yolanda.”
10.6.22
The dog needs you.
The cats need you.
Boyfriend needs you.
Your friends need you.
The dog needs you. (Someone else would walk her) The cats need you. (Or just food and shelter) Boyfriend needs you. (I’m a burden) Your friends need you. (Some never called) The dog needs you. (They’d get her better treatment) The cats need you. (Paul would keep them) Boyfriend needs you. (His life would be simpler) Your friends need you. (To make them feel better) The dog needs you. (She’d get adopted) The cats need you (they’re cats) Boyfriend needs you. (He won’t have to worry) Your friends need you. (they’re fine) The dog needs you. (She’d adapt.) The cats need you. (They’d adapt.) Boyfriend needs you. (He’d adapt.) Your friends need you. (They’ll adapt.)
I’m looking for them too, Rox.
October 4th, 80 days after.
Sunday, July 10th 2022. 3:21 am.
On the couch. The room is cold. A blanket from home, but forgot to bring a pillow. My mask is damp from snot and tears. The room is nice. Large paintings, a full table to eat at. I wonder how many others have died here. It’s just me and him.
80 pounds. That’s what the nurse says he weighs now. What little is left of him is sunken in. Steadily disappearing. The only sounds in the room are the air conditioner and his unsteady rasping. How long can someone live like this? I find myself counting, between the breaths. I don’t know if I'll be relieved when he starts again. How can someone live like this?
I’ve spent my entire life knowing that he was going to die. It was always right there, right on the horizon. Always coming. I didn’t let myself hope that he’d make it to my wedding, that he would ever meet my kids. I knew better than that. That’s why he trusts me so much. I’m the one that knows better.
“But I’m supposed to be strong for you.”
- two days before he passed

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July 13th
He hasn’t eaten in 5 days
How am I supposed to
July 8 2022
10:45 am
terminal aggression
no swallowing
kidneys failing
Ten years. It goes by so fast
8.2.21
🥺❤️
July 2021

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July 21st, 2021
Seattle was a dream
7/3/22
What
Just
Happened