There’s A Shower Chair In My Dad’s Kitchen Because He’s A Massive Dork.

Buenas dias, señors y señoritas. ¿Qué tal? ¿Bien, y tú? Jajajaja!

Hey! Guess where I am! Deshler! Isn’t that new and different! Wow! What fun!

Full disclosure: I’m getting tired of coming down here. That’s awful of me to say, but good golly. I know I should enjoy the time here because chances are very likely I’ll probably never come back, save special circumstances, like high school reunions, but right now, I’m getting burned out on D Town. It is nice sitting on Dad’s front porch and as he likes to say, “watch the world go by.” I’m currently doing just that. I have coffee and being a bit of a dork and have my car stereo on so I can listen to music. I need to turn the bass down, though; it’s a little hot. Will I? Probably not because I am lazy and can’t be buggered to walk the 20 feet to my car.

Well, I got interrupted in writing by Dad.

He was at the farm yesterday when I got to Deshler and he spent the night out there, which got my worry wort tendency to kick in. I know he loves it out there, but it’s gotten to the point where I fret about him being out there, especially when he sleeps. I had decided that if he wasn’t back in town by 10am, that I was going to go out there to check to make sure he was still alive. Morbid? Yes, but warranted. As I  wrote earlier, I was sitting on the porch and he drove up around 8:15. I went inside to say hello and he could barely make it up the backdoor stairs. He said he was in pain again, so I gave him some morphine and put him to bed.

This shit is hard. It’s heart wrenching to see your father hunched over in pain and I can tell when it’s bad for him because his voice changes. Plus, he doesn’t exactly talk gibberish, but he just says odd things. I was getting him situated in bed and he was thanking me for helping him, and he suddenly started singing “rubber ducky, you’re the one…” Then he said, “have I mentioned I’ve been hallucinating lately?” and his dreams are super bizarre. Cool, Dad. That’s not concerning at all.

Another difficult thing is the emotional rollercoaster. One day, he’ll sound great and be feeling well, and we all think he was premature in his assessment that he has a few weeks left. We’re like, “fuck yeah! He may have cancer, but cancer is having him yet!” Then, there’s days like today when he’s in pain, weak, and starts singing Sesame Street songs and I am scared to death to leave to go back to Lincoln because I’m just certain that it’ll be the last time I see him and I start thinking about how I will need to go buy clothes to wear to the funeral. Talk about going from zero to sixty in a few seconds. It’s exhausting.

I also have the feelings of “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” which breaks my own heart because that means when it’s over, he won’t be here. That’s so hard to reconcile. It’s not like when it’s over, he’s going to wake up one morning and be free of cancer and live another 20 years. Not to make light of the situation, but it’ll be game over, man. Game over.

I really want to start drinking right now. Healthy, no? Good coping skills, E. They–and I don’t know exactly who “they” are–never should have introduced me to alcohol. Or I should be smart enough not going to the bottle to help deal with this shit, but I never claimed to be smart.

Oh, I did walk to my car to turn the bass down finally. Why I’m not listening to the music in my phone is beyond me, but whatever.

I really wish I was in Lincoln helping with the highway trash cleanup that my atheist group is doing today. That sounds way more fun than what I’m doing now. Oh well. Next time.

I’m sorry I keep writing about this crap, too. But I am my father’s child and would rather write about this than talk to anyone. Plus, in my mind, I don’t want to talk about it because how many of you have dealt with this exact situation? I’d only make you uncomfortable and feel awkward that you can’t offer words of wisdom, so if I write about it, I’m helping us both out: I can get my mind clear and hopefully, my tales will be useful to anyone who has the misfortune of having to go through this at some point with your own parents. Hopefully not, because I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. I guess just treat these posts as the train wreck you can’t look away from.

In closing, a giant “FUCK YOU” to cancer. I was rubbing Dad’s back earlier and wondered if I could feel it under his skin, and then I wished I was like John Coffey in “The Green Mile” and could somehow remove it from him. That’d be awesome.

I’m rambling now, so I’ll stop.

As always, thanks for reading.

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