I have added an extra item to my daily ritual of FaceTiming with Mom and Dad on my lunch hour: Now, after I hang up, I have a good cry.
I was really doing quite well last week--very much able to focus on the positive, to wax philosophic and maybe even a little poetic on the silver linings contained in this epic thundercloud that has parked itself over my family.
But the days wear on, and Dad speaks a little less often and falls asleep a little more often almost every time we talk. And although, intellectually, I know (and am grateful) that he is not in any pain, that he is at peace, that he is loved, my heart still rebels at the knowledge that he is nonetheless slipping away from me bit by beloved bit.
Dammit, you guys, my dad is dying AND I HATE IT.
Here's how the story was supposed to go: Dad gets cancer. Family and friends get scared but rally behind him. Dad goes through treatment and into remission. Family gathers intact at Christmas and has a good laugh at how badly Dad scared them that one time when he got sick in London. Remember that? Oh man. So glad you're here, Dad.
Spoiler alert: He dies in the end.
Further spoiler alert: We all do.