Dad

After several weeks of fatigue and difficulty breathing, including a week in the hospital, my father was diagnosed yesterday with an advanced stage of lung cancer, and we were told that he has a very short time to live. I was in disbelief for a minute, because everything was so sudden, and then it sunk in: he is dying. My dad, so brave and calm, began to tell my mom and me that he hoped we were happy in life, that he tried to give me everything, that he tried to be a good father, and so forth. It was heart-breaking. Later in the day, as his breathing started to deteriorate, he was put on a ventilator, and still his condition is slowly getting worse. We’ve had several talks with the doctors and among ourselves, and today, given the impossibility of recovery, we made the difficult decision to take him off the machine tomorrow. His life will end in the same hospital where mine began twenty-nine years ago.

I’m writing this now, during a quiet moment at home, while I’m relatively composed, because I’m sure the next few days will be, well, I can only imagine. I’ve already broken down and cried several times, but from his hospital bed my dad seems to be the calm eye of the storm. His mind is still quite aware, so although he can’t talk, he nods and shakes his head or waves his hands when we talk to him.

If you believe that things happen for a reason (I don’t know if I do), you could say that there’s something in the timing of Thom’s and my move to California, that he held on until I came back home. My mom has asked why, at the age of 59, does my dad have to die. There may not be an answer. All I can say is that it’s his time.

[Addendum (July 10): My dad died peacefully on July 6. Thom has written a detailed and heartfelt post on his blog about my dad’s last days.]