Yesterday was very hard. It was emotionally taxing and depressing. I felt lost and scared. All this had a lot to do with me trying to schedule therapy type activities in order to make myself deal with the emotional backlash of this situation. I called Alive Hospice but they only have groups for people who have already lost a loved one. They did try to start a group for caretakers (which I am not) but the caretakers did not have the time. Ironic. So I am going to check into individual counseling but I do not want to go to my supervisor/therapist because I want someone who will listen about my father and not try to take care of me. Yes, I realize that sounds a little odd, but what I need right now is to balance my pre-grieving with being strong for the family-my choice.

I did check in with my mother yesterday but she was taking a nap which was a wonderful idea. She works full time as well as driving to see daddy on his non-dialysis days. There is no point in seeing him on his dialysis days because he is incoherent and blank. He is simply exhausted and has no reserves left. This is when he truly looks old and spent. He does not look like my father, but like my grandfather when he was nearing the end of his life. There is a gauntness to the face and a tiredness that seems to go through the bones. I was hoping that he was day dreaming during these times, but mummy says he is worried and scared and even paranoid during these times. He is unsure where he is, or why he is there. He has been moved at times and "woken up" thinking he has been kidnapped and is going to be hurt/tortured. This is a man who has lived/travelled and worked in numerous war zones so it is not as crazy as one would suppose.

I am very grateful that I have a wonderful spouse who is truly there for me. I am tired to-day but doing much better than yesterday.

I think I have a hard time going to sleep at times because I am afraid that if I go to sleep I will wake up and he will have gone. Died. Irrational I know, but I also know that most people die in the early dawn statistically speaking. The thing is I do not see the purpose in him hanging around if he has no real life, but, gratefully, that is not my decision to make.

Daddy always liked to follow a routine. He is not a man of spontaneous action. That is part of what has made him so reliable. He has been like an old oak that stands hard even when buffeted by strong winds.

He is scared of death. I wish I could hold his hand and lead him but again I cannot. His mother is waiting for him. His grandmother is too. His father is watching and waiting, but it is mother who's face must be wreathed in a big smile with her arms open wide. I will miss his sturdy warm hands. I already miss them. His hands at the hospital seemed so frail. You know he has these big fingers, but he could manage his way around intricate pieces and fix them like a gold chain or a watch. They were always warm on my skin when he would tug on my ear or tap me on my knee. I miss his warm loving hands.

One of my favorite images is that of a child in the Big hand of God. I think God's hands must feel a lot like daddy's.

The whole point behind me doing this is as a form of journaling I suppose. I cannot make myself write in a diary because the pen seems too heavy and I cannot record myself because I do not want to hear the pain in my voice. My 70 year old father is dying. And no we are not all dying-that is bullcrap. When one is able to confidently make plans for next year, five years down the road,etc. then that person is not dying. That is such baloney. Sorry it makes me angry. It minimizes the loss and in it's own turn rejects a person's pain. In this case my pain. Yes, I know we all die. It does not make my father dying any easier. Yes, I know others have had no father or lost theirs younger, blah, blah, blah. I am grieving the dying of my father. No-one else's. I know that life is not fair. I have reminded my clients of that. Still the little girl inside wants life to be fair. Life being fair means that a good man does not die a painful, long death. One of my father's greatest fears has been dying in a hospital. He used to say that he relatives who went into the hospital never came back out alive. So where is he now. In the hospital, and no he is not going to come out alive. It is not the hospital's fault. My father is dying from a combination of the affects of diabetes and renal failure. He has decubitus which means that anywhere a blood pool forms (like where they check his status, give him shots) his body starts to rot due to lack of blood flow. It rots from the inside out and large rivers of dead tissue form and fall off. It is very painful, and my stoic father has recently shared that he has little tolerance for pain. My father who did not even squirm when the car door smashed his thumb so that his nail feel off. My father who has fallen so many times and never winced. This makes me want to cry for him-to protect him from the pain, to draw it away. I cannot. He is on pain meds but they want him coherent so they raise them when changing his bandages but otherwise he is always in some pain. I saw his wounds almost a month ago. I wanted to see them so that I could see reality. Face reality. They are big and very ugly. They smell bad and are like shallow pools all over his body. Have you ever burnt yourself with a three degree burn and watched it build back up-all the different layers. That is kind of what it looks like. He has lost a lot of weight and his skin sags where he used to be. He is still my handsome daddy though. I love him very much.

Me, myself and I

This seems a good time to start a blog as there is so much going on in my life-at least to me. That is what this is all about-what I see and how I see it. No seeking of approval, no need for validation- just my own opinion, version, and perspective. Currently I am unemployed and that certainly gives me time to write. As a child growing up in Kuwait I often created stories as I worked on cleaning the room along with my siblings Being the eldest I was supposed to be a role model so of course I went on cleaning until it was finished, and not until I got bored. This gave me the time to create characters and I gave them different voices and temperaments. I loved doing the different characters which is why I loved doing plays in secondary school (high school in the good ol' USA). They tended to be regency characters as my favourite storyteller was Georgette Heyer and naturally they were a female and a male arguing, discussing and generally being wittty. At least in my estimation. I did not do this when my siblings were in the room becasue then they would have asked questions and these were my stories. I told my siblings other stories. Stories like Enid Blyton's or Nesbit or from the childrens version of a Thousand and One Nights. There were always strong emotions involved in my stories to myself and that is becasue I tend to have strong emotions. It is time for dinner. More later or tomorrow. My Beloved has made dinner.