My dad has been very sick lately, and I haven’t actually come to terms with it. I mean, I am not in denial. Not in the real sense of the word. I am aware of what is happening, and the possible outcomes. I am aware of several dire possible outcomes. I am at the hospital three to four days a week. But it just hasn’t sunk in yet. Then today it got worse. I can’t even bring myself to write it out as I am still absorbing it myself.
After visiting him today I sat in my car at the hospital and cried. I sobbed like a little girl, scared and confused. But then I stopped. He didn’t raise me to give up. And he didn’t raise me to feel hopeless. Until the end there is always hope. I can’t solve his problems. I can’t cure him. I can’t even make him well enough to come home. But I can make him feel better. I can make him happy, even if only for moments at a time.
I went online tonight and ordered numerous books he might enjoy to better pass the time in between seeing doctors and having procedures done. I can’t bring the kids to the ICU, but I can bring many pictures. I can’t be there every day, but I can make the most of it when I am there. I can show him the strong daughter he raised. I can make him proud. I can make his last days meaningful. There is in fact nothing I can do, but I can still do everything I can.