My father died of lung cancer March 14th 1998. Yes, he smoked, he had worked with asbestos and had worked in a steel mill. I am a nurse, so when he got the diagnosis, I knew he was going to die. That night I began to write what I would say at his funeral. I began to plan for how I would take care of him, when he became really sick. I began looking up hospices. A few years prior he had a part of his lung removed. Now it was in the bone. He hurt so much. I held everything together, I took the heat for the uncaring doctors and nurses. My family vented on me, since I am a nurse. I had to be strong, yet I was dying along side of my sweet daddy. Everyone had hope, I saw the test results and I knew there was none. My family would argue with the professionals and could deny, I could not. My family would demand answers from me, and I couldn't tell them what I knew, I wanted my daddy to have comfort in some hope. A week prior to my fathers death, a group of doctor's and interns thought it was best to tell my dad he had no hope, there was no more treatment only hospice, my sweet Daddy, so good to everyone, quickly retreated into himself and lost his mind. Dying he held my hand, I begged him not to leave me, I begged him to hold on, he started to breath again for me and I felt so damn guilty for not having any hope for knowing exactly what was going to happen, for praying that God would take my father, and then for begging him not to leave me! I told my daddy I was sorry and that he could go and that I was being selfish, and he went and I felt myself dying too, I wouldn't let hospice come in, nor the funeral parlor, his hand was still in mine, warm, just like always, Oh God why him?! I miss him so very much. He loved me... and now he's gone. I knew... yet I couldn't do a thing, some nurse.
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anniversary date 03-14-98
date of post 07-17-98