Originally published at Living. Please leave any comments there.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this out, let alone posting it on the internet. There’s something about putting the thoughts inside my head into a more permanent form, and perhaps all this sharing will be therapeutic in some form or another. I’m not going to pull any punches, and I have a funny feeling that reading this may upset some of my friends… as for complete strangers, who cares?

It is a very good thing indeed that my mother is here doing pretty much all the care giving for my father. The hospice nurse is here once a day, but their ministrations are largely too short, at least to give my mother some relief. But that’s why I’m here. My mother asked me today “You’ve changed diaper on a baby, right?” — no, I have not. What this made me realize is that I am utterly unprepared to take care of my father. I am very glad my mother is the tough, positive woman that she is, and it’s amazing that she’s done this much for my father already.

The only call to action I had today was when mom was on the phone and dad needed to go to the bathroom, which is nothing new. The “#2″ isn’t anything new, he’s had issues with the runs since the chemo started. Now it’s the medication to clean the ammonia out of his blood, since his liver shut down two weeks ago. Last night, before I arrived, was the first night he had some serious issues; my mother contacted one of her dear (probably soon to be sainted) RN friends who loaned us a bedside commode.

But this time was was different. My mother was on the phone and I had to help dad get to the bathroom, the most basic of functions someone can do for themselves, I felt it: dread, terror, malcontent, paralysis. I wanted to say “Dad, just use the bed side commode” as he wobbled, my arms under his, towards the bathroom. But I didn’t, because I figured that would upset him. He must have sensed something, or maybe he just wanted my mother, because he yelled (or as much of a yell as he could muster) “Lynnie!” Mom got off the phone double quick, and I just stood there. I failed in this most basic of things.

That moment is a microcosm of what’s coming, and he knows it. I know it. He doesn’t answer if you ask him what he’s thinking, or if he’s in pain. Two to four weeks to live and he’s refusing all pain meds, says he feels no pain. My mother believes him. I know he’s full of shit - because I know how I manage pain, and my incredibly high tolerance for it. I also know how utterly self reliant my father was for the majority of his life, and how incredibly infuriating it must be for him to need help to just go to the bathroom.

Dad is sleeping. The redskins are on TV. They’re playing the Cowboys, and it’s one of the biggest rivalries in the NFL. Any other time, even two weeks ago, he’d be watching and screaming at the TV along with every other rabid Redskins fan. Before he had his hips replaced, we attended the one and only NFL game I’ve ever been to, 10*F and sleeting, gritting his teeth the whole walk to and from the stadium. That is the love my father has for football, especially redskins football.

Whatever is going on in his head, he knows what’s going to happen. He’s just waiting. My mother and I expect his ever impatient nature still comes into play. I don’t see any shame in ending your own life if you know it’s going to happen shortly anyway. My mother agreed, noting that it’s legal and available in Oregon.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how much work I’m going to done in this telecommuting setup. I am terrified of having to wipe my father’s backside, but only because I know he’ll see that as even further degradation of his dignity. I am afraid that I am going to “deer in headlights” again when I am needed most. I have never been so scared in my life, but even saying that out loud feels empty, because I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening.

All I can do is keep going, which is what I am going to do. I also hope to write something like this on a regular basis, as a way letting the worry out. Keeping worry in tends to rot the soul.

I love you, dad.