December 12, 2024
349 days without you
Dad,
I was doing okay, and just like that, I’m broken again. I guess that’s how grief is, how missing a part of you is—you’re okay one second, and splitting in half the next. One year ago from tomorrow was your last day at home, Dad, the day before we brought you to the hospice house. Your full day of “normalcy” and being able to pretend like everything was coming to a head, at least that’s what it felt like for me.
Dad, I don’t think you knew this, but Mom wanted to keep you home for longer. I think we both knew deep down that she couldn’t keep caring for you as you declined, but she didn’t want the idea of you leaving home to be a reality. I was the one who said you needed go, which is ironic I guess. You would think I would be begging the nurses to let you stay at home, to let you stay with us, but I wasn’t. The rational part of me took over, and I just knew you couldn’t be here anymore. You needed more care and Mom and I needed help. It was so hard looking at Mom and telling her she couldn’t keep you at home, but it needed to be said.
When we moved you to the hospice house, it was the real beginning of all of the lasts. Last car ride (where we listened to your “Christian Faves” playlist while I quietly wept in the back seat), last time outside in fresh air, last time seeing Louie, last time in the town you spent your entire adult life in. I’d like to say you were at peace with everything that was going on around you, but truthfully, I don’t think you knew what was going on. That was one of the hardest parts, Dad, knowing you were blindly trusting that we were doing what was best because you didn’t know what was going on. Or, if you did, you never said anything.
Moving you to the hospice house was the start of the worst weeks of my life. Nothing even remotely compares to the pain and exhaustion we all felt sitting and watching you die for 8, 9, 10 hours every day. And even though it nearly felt like hell on earth, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. It’s where you were, and where you would eventually go to Heaven. I didn’t want to miss a second with you, or to miss your last breath. Thinking back, I have a drastic love/hate relationship with that quaint hospice house in Luverne, Iowa (did you ever think you’d die in Luverne?). Mom and I practically lived there for three weeks, and while each new day subsequently became the new worst day of my life (it sounds dramatic, Dad, but it’s true), you were still there. I wouldn’t trade a single moment with you from the hospice house for anything in the world. But, I don’t know if I could survive going back to that house without you in it. Your dying was the reason we were there, but you were still the one keeping me going. Without you here now, sometimes it’s hard to find a reason to keep going.
I miss you, Dad. I miss everything about you, but tonight as I sit here in bed and write as Carter sleeps, I miss your hugs the most. I miss your voice and you calling me “sweetie pie.” I miss seeing you read sports magazines and watching you put so much time and effort into planning your fantasy football team (did anyone tell you that you won the league? The first posthumously season winner). I miss your passion and humor and hearing you talk about Jesus. But now you get to talk with Him. Tell Him “Thank you” for me.
