Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Dad told me that he "wouldn't be around much longer," last night through a sea of tears. My heart broke and crumbled into a thousand pieces all over again.

He's back from the hospital after having angioplasty. He needed two stents and the doctor declared his vessels to be in "pretty good shape." Immediately following surgery, Dad had excruciating chest pain that took the RNs a couple of hours to get under control. They were jittery and "very concerned" and it spread over to me as I sat there, watching them systematically test his blood pressure, administer morphine and hold his hand.

Now that he's home, it's difficult to get him up and out of bed. He's as weak as a kitten.

So last night he told me that I need to be prepared for his death. I told him that I wasn't and couldn't anticipate ever being prepared. Dad isn't afraid to die, though he doesn't want to leave. I can't get the visual out of my head: Dad in bed on his side, looking out the window at the clear blue sky and reflecting how clear it is...that there is no smog.

It was wistful but appreciative.

Life is still inside him even though his body is slowly giving out. It's agonizing for both of us to watch it evolve without having any ability to stop it.

Once again, any anger that I ever felt has slowly dissipated. I just want Dad to be comfortable and enjoy moments of sheer contentment.

I hate this.