On January 25, 2014 all hell broke loose. My mom was in Maine, and my brother and I were at school. After hours of my father not answering any phone calls my mom arrived at home to find the house a mess, the animals going chaotic, and my father wandering around the house. He was confused; he didn't even know his name.
When my mom called me I was laying in my bed, "Dad's really sick Molly," she said as she told me of the scene she had just recently walked into. I knew this, everyone knew this. He was a sick man, but this time was different and we all knew it. This was the turning point; he officially went from being sick, to dying. His death was a slow one, it lasted a total of seven months and five days. Some days were better than others. I remember our last date, he wanted to go buy magazines. After the hour drive to a very specific Barnes and Nobel, I had to go to the bathroom. When I arrived back to him he was dancing to Bob Marley by the magazine stand.
Other days were not so great. Sometimes he would get angry, I didn't mind those days. But on the days when he would get sad and give up hope... those days sucked. What was hard is that everyone knew that there was nothing any doctor could do or say because he wasn't going to get better. He would spend days in his room without showering, laying in bed with that cat, yelling for us to bring him grilled cheese and popsicles... and god forbid you bring him only one popsicle, he wanted the whole box. I would get phone calls from him in the middle of the night, and what he said to me I will not repeat to you (sorry). I distanced myself from all of my friends and I had went home nearly every weekend that semester, not something a freshman in college should have to suffer through.
But I am stronger now. Fast forward to January 25, this year. It's weird really, to me this is the day I realized the end was sooner than I had anticipated. The day I realized my dad wouldn't live to walk me down the isle, he would never be a grandfather, and that at any moment I could receive a phone call from my mother saying that he had died. But I don't have to worry about that anymore. I can breathe and allow myself to have fun without feeling guilty that he is at home in pain. I don't have to worry about my mom taking care of him, and that she can finally make it through the night.
I find that I enjoy talking to people about what I have been through, it lets them know why I might have acted the way I did, and why I distanced myself so much. I don't do it for the pity, or for the "you're so strong," bull... I do it because it helps me cope.
January 25, 2014 was a hard day for my family. But he is at peace now, and we can be too.
