forthebook's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- three months old My father is dying. I didn't really tell most of my friends. Kidney cancer. I kept thinking that he was going to get better, was getting better. Maybe that was just wishful thinking or denial or both. I sat up with him this morning. I went to bed at 1am only to awaken three hours later, completely unable to sleep. I checked on him and his fever was back so I've sat here at the computer, changing a cool towel for his forehead. I know it's not doing much but I feel like I need to do something because this entire time that we've been going through the process, I've felt so fucking helpless. I want to do more for him, I would do anything to change this. He's 56. His birthday is less than two months away. Soaking a washcloth in water is all I can do now. He can't talk to us anymore, he doesn't seem to know we're there - no matter what my mother tries to make us think. I like to think he can hear us and the hospice people tell us that hearing is the last thing to go. I talk to him. I hope he hears me, understands my words. I never expected it to go by so fast. Diagnosed in November, already way too late. He just went downhill. Rapidly. I feel like I should have seen the signs. I'm not sure why I thought it was okay - because no one told me, because he came home, because I wanted him to be better so, so badly. The plump overnight emergency nurse, garbed a colorful smock littered with cats, explains to us that this is the way cancer patients usually go. They cells are multiplying quickly. One into two turns into one million into two million before you know it. It's shockint go a lot of people, she tells us. The only thing that sticks in my mind is that she says "hours to days instead of days to weeks." That was worse than hearing cancer, a word I wouldn't even use, despite the signs, until we were dead sure, months after it was hinted at. I know more about the way the body dies now than I ever wanted to know. I check Dad for the signs often; progression, new. Meredith, our regular nurse from hospice, touches you when she offers advice and instructions. I don't like it, but she reads me and knows when I have a question and I'm grateful that she brings it up often. She tells us that, yes, it'll be days. I'm still shocked whenever someone says it. We go over a checklist of signs that Hospice provides, things to look for. My mother had this folder and they must have gone over it with her, but she didn't tell us, show us. It makes me angry. The one I'm looking for is the body getting rid of its water; the others are so hard to guage. The bad that collects his urine is almost always empty, which is comforting despite its color and consistancy. His breathing scares me. His heart and lungs are not in tune with one another so sometimes he stops for a bit. Not more than five or six second each time, but everytime I see it, I hold mine too. At least they could suction out some of the fluid in the back of his throat. It made a terrible noise. He seems more stable now that its gone; although I hate to fool myself again into thinking that it's going to be okay. My hands shake all the time now. I have to fidgit or it's noticable. I've never been so scared before. I talk about it in code and undertones at The Restaurant with Joe, my manager. Don't hire another hostess, I tell him, I think I'll be able to work more days again before you can find one. I should have cut my days sooner. I'll want the hours again, I say, after everything is settled. I can't bear to say it any way else. I joke, I just want my days back again, so it's for purely selfish reasons that I leave you hostess-less. It's a very unselfish thing you're doing, Joe tells me. It makes me want to cry, but I just smile and he walks away to do manager things. M., one of our bussers, heard me talking about cutting my days and apologizing to the managers the other week. He asks if I'm quitting or working more hours at my other job. I don't know what to do so I tell him in as little detail as possible about my father. Don't tell anyone else here, I plead, it's hard enough without people asking if you're okay all the time. I think people there know anyway. Our restaurant is small and prone to gossip. I'm going to school soon. Because my dad would want that. He wouldn't want us to drop our lives and fall apart. I've done that before. A couple of years ago. He told me that I just couldn't do that. He told me that I always had to push through things. I would stay at home and mourn all day if it wasn't for that. Meredith tells us that we shouldn't feel guilty if we aren't here when it happens. I'm not sure if I'd want to be there too. I don't think you should watch your father die. I don't think he'd want us to watch either. Cremation is what he always wanted. So that the worms don't eat me, he told us. His best friend of almost 40 years came by the house today. Uncle G hugs me tightly and tells us that we should have called him sooner. He talks to my mom about mortuary and funeral arrangements outside, out of earshot of my dad. I watch him cry over my father who may or may not know how he's there. These are hard things for me. I want to put them here so I don't have to think about them. But it's like trying to wash the cancer away with my washcloth and cold water, it's just too late to not have hard things happening, spinning in my head. Everytime I leave the room, I'm scared to come back into it. I hope my dad isn't suffering. I hope he's going peacefully. I hope he knows how much I love him. And I hope things are really going to be okay. 11:03 a.m. - 2006-07-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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