Denise and her husband flew into town last Friday so they could spend time with Dad. We're all concerned about his increasingly severe health issues.
It's like deja vu all over again.
Calling 911. The trips to the hospital, confirming the health insurance and dad's advanced directives, buying flowers and magazines, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, making small talk to keep his mind off how badly he wants to go home, and watching the RNs take the blood pressure.
Then we're finally back home and I'm making doctor visit shuttle runs, sitting at the pharmacy for the new prescriptions, sorting the meds into the little plastic boxes for every day of the week, airing out the bedroom every morning and serving lots of canned peaches.
Dad's happiness is revolved around listening to music and eating foods that have no place on a cardiac diet. I wish I could do more.
Denise and entourage go home to California tomorrow. I'm so sad to see them go.
And I'm scared.
Because I am a coward who is horribly afraid to be with someone when they die.