Requiem Part 2

It's been more than a week since Dad's death.

We held the funeral in the beautifully redone St. Mary's. That Dad never got to see finished...

I've been back to school.

But it's not the same.

It never will be.

Even if it's something in the back of my head,

Reminding me when I wake up.

About that terrible year that Dad's life was slowly sucked away.

He died on January 30th, a few days before Groundhog's Day, which would've been the anniversary of the last time he walked and the last time we took him to the hospital.

Because after that we wouldn't let him leave home.

I can't believe that after that year, in the course of 365 days, that he is so gone.

Everyday, I wake up,
And I'm reminded for a moment,
For the pain a man suffered,
And the inevitable loss his family felt as he died.
I say to myself, "My Dad is dead.
I have one parent who's dealing with the intensity of her own loss,
Which I must say is alot stronger for her."

But everyday, when I go to bed, I try to remember who he was before the cancer.
I remember this quote that has been repeated many times upon Dad's death.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have
kept the faith.

And I ask myself,
Would he be proud of me right now?

Groundhog's Day

(St. Lukes Hospital)

I awoke this morning to the sound of Andy desperately whispering to me, "Wake up Joe! Dad's having another seizure!" In a sense of disbelief, I put on some clothes haphazardly and walked into the master bedroom. There was Gary, on the bed, twitching and breathing with difficulty, almost wheezing. Mom was right there too. She's a nurse and called the paramedics as soon as she figured out what was happening. After a few confused moments, watching in pain, they arrived, carried Gary outside onto a stretcher, and put him in the ambulance.

We knew the way and were there before they were. And as soon as they came, we were able to see Dad and comfort him. It was a long time in the hospital before I finally took a look at a clock. It wasn't even 4 AM in the morning, and we had spent an hour or so awake already. And we had spent most of that time standing there in the hospital room next to Dad. We all cried and held hands and tried to comfort each other. I didn't know what to think, and that was partly due to the fact that every single thing that runs through your head in a situation like this seems infinitely inappropriate. And you can't think of anything to do or say to make anything better. What are you supposed to do?

We spent three hours in the hospital. Dad got a CT scan and they sent us home at six so we could all get some sleep. None of us know what this means yet. It could mean radiation. It could mean more powerful pills. It could mean anything. But I'm gonna hope it means nothing. And I'll try to start over today. I don't want this to ruin everybody. If we indeed have limited time with our loved ones, we should spend minimal amounts of it weeping. Comforting, always. I hope to God that this is just a sign, a warning, anything but bad news.