Mad. Mad at a dead girl. Mad because she had so much life left, no disease other than ones of the mind, nothing physically sucking the life out of her. Mad because she had to have her foot in sickness, lied about her grandpa having cancer just so I wasn’t the only one suffering from a terminally ill loved one, and she’s no where to be found when I need her now. She’s not six feet under. There is nowhere to go and remember her. Of course it all starts at home – I’ve yet to visit Gram’s grave since I feel her always but it’s different somehow. She still had life left, she should be able to live it out in a coffin.
My father is holding on by a thread. He can’t speak. I don’t even know if he registers our voices, our faces. He is sleeping now, we are all waiting around with tears and broken hearts. Unable to let him go but willing because his pain is too much, it is all too much. I regret not laying in with him, not saying I love you every night, not kissing him good morning every time we woke up. I hate this disease, what it has made this big strong man, regressed him into a helpless baby, hate the doctors for steering him wrong, hate myself for not doing more, more, I don’t know, got him in a plane for the natural doctors in California.
And now we wait. Now all is fragile. Now all is hopeless.