Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My Dad died at the end of September last year. He had brain cancer.
I spent most of August and September back in Nova Scotia, visiting him every day in his palliative care ward. On his good days I would take him for a walk outside in a wheelchair, and we talked, or listened to music. He loved Mozart. And Patsy Cline.
On worse days, near the end, he lay in bed, desperately gasping to stay alive while I read to him and held his hand, hoping, or pretending, that he knew I was there. I silently wept.
I have written about my Dad here, and the beginning of his illness here. Those words give only a glimpse into the complicated love of our relationship. Now, thoughts of Dad smack me many times a day, leaving me sometimes smiling, sometimes aching, sometimes anguished. I can't write about them. Yet.
I didn't know that losing my Dad would be so hard, or that the pain would still be so dense. I miss him.
Above photo: Dad in 1988 (with my son).
Top photo: Dad in 2000 at Machu Picchu, Peru. He gave me my love of travel and of mountains.