When you were in the hospital you didn't want to read or listen to audiobooks (I pushed hard on this one, to no avail) or listen to music for the most part. You must have felt so miserable, and there was simply no relief we could offer.
I felt so helpless, those days in the hospital, Dad, utterly helpless. Megan was really good at acting cheerful and happy, and you always brightened a little when she walked in the room. Marc was running a one man cancer research project, he was the best one at talking to the doctors, getting them to explain things clearly, covering all the options, and figuring out the best next steps. Mom was a pro at acting like absolutely nothing was wrong and you weren't sick. I don't know that I really did anything that well those days, Dad, but I was there with you every day.
For the most part, the only thing we could really help you with was adjusting pillows. This was the one small task we were able to do that gave you maybe the tiniest bit of relief from pain. You would call one of us over and gesture to the pillow you wanted moved, explain exactly where to put it (usually wedged under the side of your back), and then you'd grab onto the rail on the side of the bed and lift your frail body up a little so we could get the pillow into the proper position. God, how did your body get so frail so quickly?
I had a dream last night that you needed a back adjustment, and I was trying to help you, but I kept doing it wrong. I couldn't help and it just kept getting worse and worse. It's the first dream I've had about you since you died, and it was so awful that I woke myself up to get out of it.
I'm sorry I couldn't help more, Dad, I really am. So, so sorry.
When I realized that you were dying, that you were never going to leave that hospital alive, I briefly thought "I will look back on these days in this hospital as the worst days of my life." And to a certain extent, I do. Driving by the hospital provokes such a visceral reaction that I take alternate routes to avoid it. Seeing Christmas decorations, hearing Christmas music, seeing evergreen trees, it's all utterly repulsive to me now.
And yet, if I could go back to those days in the hospital, I would do it in a heartbeat. I'd hold your hand tighter and hug you and adjust pillows all day. I'd do anything to see you again, Dad, I really would. My heart is heavy today, and I miss you.
a
I felt so helpless, those days in the hospital, Dad, utterly helpless. Megan was really good at acting cheerful and happy, and you always brightened a little when she walked in the room. Marc was running a one man cancer research project, he was the best one at talking to the doctors, getting them to explain things clearly, covering all the options, and figuring out the best next steps. Mom was a pro at acting like absolutely nothing was wrong and you weren't sick. I don't know that I really did anything that well those days, Dad, but I was there with you every day.
For the most part, the only thing we could really help you with was adjusting pillows. This was the one small task we were able to do that gave you maybe the tiniest bit of relief from pain. You would call one of us over and gesture to the pillow you wanted moved, explain exactly where to put it (usually wedged under the side of your back), and then you'd grab onto the rail on the side of the bed and lift your frail body up a little so we could get the pillow into the proper position. God, how did your body get so frail so quickly?
I had a dream last night that you needed a back adjustment, and I was trying to help you, but I kept doing it wrong. I couldn't help and it just kept getting worse and worse. It's the first dream I've had about you since you died, and it was so awful that I woke myself up to get out of it.
I'm sorry I couldn't help more, Dad, I really am. So, so sorry.
When I realized that you were dying, that you were never going to leave that hospital alive, I briefly thought "I will look back on these days in this hospital as the worst days of my life." And to a certain extent, I do. Driving by the hospital provokes such a visceral reaction that I take alternate routes to avoid it. Seeing Christmas decorations, hearing Christmas music, seeing evergreen trees, it's all utterly repulsive to me now.
And yet, if I could go back to those days in the hospital, I would do it in a heartbeat. I'd hold your hand tighter and hug you and adjust pillows all day. I'd do anything to see you again, Dad, I really would. My heart is heavy today, and I miss you.
a
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