Less Than a Year

You want to know what hurts the most about the general confusion with my father? Whenever I would have an actual conversation with my father before everything, he would say things all the time that would hurt me. Whether it be because he was hungover or because he was drunk, he could say something that could really stick with me down in my core and just be plain mean.

However, now it's different.

The first time I saw my father in person, he asked me if I just got done with the fair, something he would always take me and my sisters to when we were younger. He asked if we went to eat at a Mexican restaurant, a tradition we would always do after I would go to work with him. He asks if I'm coming back tomorrow.

this is for anyone who stumbles along this blog and is, reasonably, nosey about what this is about. it's relatively easy for me to talk about the medical aspect of my father, because it feels like the repetition of what I've been told instead of my personal feelings.

My father was found by his neighbor on the night of the 17th of December, 2024. He was incredibly lethargic and he wasn't making any sense. He really wasn't able to walk on his own, so he was taken into the hospital in Florida. He was originally intubated, and multiple times he was restrained because he was trying to take the tubes out. The doctor explained to me that because of him being in end stage liver failure from cirrhosis, he's has a buildup of ammonia in his blood, which causes confusion. The doctor told me in that moment that he had about a year left to live; maybe more, maybe less.

Since my father was originally admitted into the hospital, he was transferred to the state that I currently live in (about 1,000 miles give or take) and now we're trying to get him admitted into a hospice care center. And... that's the general gist of everything medically.

today, I wanted to get my dog, Rocky, a stuffed animal. He's this hefty Pitbull Frenchie mix, and he has this giant underbite: his eyes always begging to you for SOME type of affection. I love this dog, but what he loves more is stuffed animals. Or, shall I say, the CARNAGE of stuffed animals. No toy is safe with him, whether its a soft-pillowy toy or a random action figure, he wants it dead. Rocky's favorite toys are the ones with the big glittery eyeballs. This morning I noticed Rocky playing with a scrap of a ball that he pulverized and I knew I had a miscellaneous stuffed animal in my room that he could have (and murder) without it really bothering me. I walked into my room, figuring I must have SOMETHING in my stuffed animal hammock for him. Whenever I climbed on my bed, I slowly started shuffling through the mass of plushies I have, recalling the small memories from them. A fluffy corgi with a flower on its ear that I won out while with my family, a gift from a friend, a sock monkey with loosely sewn on eyeballs, orange lips, and black hands and feet.

A sock monkey with loosely sewn on eyeballs, orange lips, and black hands and feet.

"Oh my god."

The words fall out of my mouth, alongside the animals landing on my bed with soft plops. The monkey feels rough under my fingers, and the memories that come with the plush toy are even worse. This was my fathers. He claimed this was his 'good luck charm' whenever he would go to the casino. He would use the stuffed animal as a neck pillow on our long rides up to Missouri, the car always smelling like the sour smell of nicotine, fresh car smell, and his cologne. Would he want this right now? Would he even remember this right now? Does he remember anything about our past? Can I not have any long conversations with him anymore? Would I have to bring this on the plane with me to see my father if things don't get better?

I have to push the thoughts out of my mind, realizing that I'm surrounded with fallen stuffed animals, a poodle with pink hair and big sparkly eyes staring back at me. Realizing the task at hand, I sort through all of my stuffed animals and leave the sock monkey out on my bed for later. Walking back to the living room, Rocky was waiting for me, knowing his next victim was in my hands. You just have to let him kill this stuffed animal, right?