My Daddy is Dying

It seems so strange to type such a title for a blog post.  I haven't posted in a while, despite spending much time at the computer.  I told myself it was because I had other things to do.  That was partially true.

This month, however, a reality check came in the form of a note about my dad's last doctor's appointment.  And this week I have been ill, so have had a few days at home by myself to reflect and to realize how much I have been running without realizing it.  Last night while I was at home with the kitties, I found myself overwhelmed with sadness.  I finally broke down and sobbed.

I have known for a while that things were changing.  I know that my daddy's mind has been swiftly leaving him.  Moments of clarity and recognition are getting further and further apart.  The formerly egregious extrovert that used to greet total strangers in the store with great delight has turned inward -- now hardly able to engage in even a simple conversation with his closest family members.

My heart was nearly cut in two when the news of his body's loosing battle was announced a couple of years ago.  I packed up my husband and cats, wrapping up seminary with a shorter degree than I had originally set out for, and moved back to our childhood town so I was sure I would have some time to be with my daddy before the final day came.  This past year has been a gift, even if it has been filled with gut-wrenching sobs over the news of dementia settling in.  We are pretty sure that the treatment for the original illness has increased the speed of this mental decline exponentially.  It may have even caused the dementia.  Which is worse -- the original disease or the side effects of the treatment?  Both cause death of one kind or another.

Now, a brand new cruel beast threatens to steal my daddy away.

I do not know what to say in my prayers.

I have talked, a bit, about my daddy's decline.  It is very difficult to talk about.

The feelings are so raw and the reality so strong that the words get caught in my throat.

People are uncomfortable with silence.  As I am struggling to formulate my thoughts, attempting to find words, they often fill the silence with their own.  When I do find the boldness to speak, their discomfort becomes more evident.

They shift in their chair.  They look away.  They find something in the room that needs tending or they change the subject or fill the remaining silence with empty platitudes.

Sometimes they shift the conversation so that it focuses on a grief they have experienced in the past.  They may well be trying to sympathize, but somehow their grief becomes the focus of the conversation.  My feelings get lost -- fading into the background like something unwanted, unloved.

I do not fault them.  They just don't know what to do.  They think they must say something.  They don't know how to sit in the presence of pain.

The pain of watching someone you love battle an illness that is slowly eating their body away is horrendous.  Seeing the very same person's mind slipping like sand through your fingers on a windy day is worse.  This pain is present every day.  Sometimes it is a dissonant background note in the seemingly large orchestration of everyday life, and it is easily ignored.  At other times, the pain arises as a solo, demanding full attention, center stage.

Today it is the latter.

Death makes people uncomfortable.  Grieving, even more so.  Few people know how to be with someone who is watching a loved one die.

My daddy is dying.  Fast or slow, death is surely coming.  I am distressed; and I feel utterly alone.