Last night I was driving to visit my dad. He’s been in a home for a few years now. Steadily losing him. There have been so many very difficult milestones to accept.
While I was driving I started crying out of nowhere. I didn’t know why. There was this overwhelming feeling of sadness. And dread. I couldn’t hold them in, so I let the tears fall. I even said out loud, “I have no idea why I’m crying.”
And then it hit me.
I didn’t want to go see him.
I hate this. I hate watching him fading. I hate seeing his limitations. I hate seeing him struggle to know who I am. I hate watching his body weaken. I hate that he’s now struggling to feed himself. I hate that he can no longer go see my kids’ special events. I hate that I have to lie to him because he gets confused, and if I tell the truth he ends up more confused and then scared and sad, too. I hate that I rarely make it from his room to the main entrance without tears streaming down my face.
I hate this disease.
I hate that I don’t want to go see my dad anymore because it most often hurts too much.
And although I do strive to put a positive spin on things that are painful, I just need to hate this all right now. I just need to feel it.
And so I did, and I didn’t turn around the car to hide from my pain.
I’m glad I went. I love my dad. We actually had a nice visit together.
I was glad he was already in bed. I sat next to him and held his hand. We talked about all sorts of things. Some things more than once. I played him a little video where he could hear coyotes calling. He liked that.
I liked to see his smile and hear his tenderness.
I was glad for the darkness in the room, because my dad couldn’t see that I’d been crying.
And the most important thing about our visit together, was me telling him, again, that I love him.