Hey

I honestly don't know where to start. I'm still such a cluster fuck of emotions. None of it still seems real, sometimes it is more real, but other times I forget like just now and call his cell to be greeted by a voice-mail that isn't even his. Which results in a rushed apology and me sitting here fighting back the tears.

I guess I'll share the story of how I got here. My father has suffered a stroke, during the treatment for that they discovered he had Stage 3 Colon Cancer. But he was a fighter, always had been. I'd been concerned for his health for awhile and had been pushing him to see a doctor. He was going to before we lost my brother at 12 to a gun accident.

Since the loss of him, my father just had changed. I knew he was grieving and I can't even imagine the guilt and pain he felt. But he quit taking care of himself, I watched this huge strong man be replaced with a husk. When the cancer diagnosis came, my wife and I urged him to move up, across the country with us so we could help. He declined.

Let me go back and say he didn't even tell me about the cancer for half a year. He told me Nov. 2019... so I was still struggling to come to terms with everything. He retreated further and just quit taking to me. I could barely get a phone call a month... he told my Aunt that he didn't want to burden me. I talked to him start off April 2020 to celebrate his Birthday, 62. He tells me his markers are down and "Boy I told you, I'm too stubborn to die." Things are looking up.

In fact I still have the gifts we and the kids bought him. I've never been good about making things on time. Come the start of May 2020, I don't push for a call because my birthday is mid May (I'm in my early 30s)... then one night I get a call. I'm told he was found in his apartment and had been there for days... having mini-strokes and been trapped on the sofa.

But he's gone septic... I'm trying to prepare for the worst. Then they tell me they think he'll be okay, I start working with a social worker to develop a long care plan. Trying to get things ready up here to get him moved up here. Then not a day after I'm told he will be okay... I get a call and have to enforce his DNR order.

I handle everything remotely, because of covid. He tested positive. He's cremated and sent to me. He's still sitting on my bookshelf... still haven't gone through any of his things... I'm not grieving right... we are getting close to a year.

I know I'm ranting... I'm sorry. I just don't know anymore. No funeral. Just here and then not. Getting better and now gone. More often then I like to admit, my mind tells me giving the DNR when he suddenly quit breathing... means I killed him... means I killed my dad.