Dad
Rhonda's POV:
Lying in the hospital bed, my father struggles for every shallow breath. His cancer diagnosis last year shattered my world, but seeing him in this state is slowly destroying me. He is all I have left. In a world overrun by werewolves centuries ago, my father was the last known human; he spent my entire life hiding me and teaching me how to survive in the midst of wolves. Now, with him fading away, I fear I am truly alone—the last human left in a world that doesn't want me.
"Listen honey, you must remember everything I taught you. Don't let what they did to..." he paused, swallowing heavily, breathing ragged. "...happen to you."
I nodded in understanding. Holding his hand, I caressed his forehead, missing the hair I use to enjoy playing with as a little girl. Tugging and pulling or twisting my fingers in it. Cancer rid his body of many things; strength, health, happiness, his job, and his hair.
Thinking about my life with him. After my mom died when I was a child, dad was all I had. He never remarried. He just couldn't. But I had a good life. He gave me all he could. Now, I've been trying to give him all I could. I had to put a hold on my college classes the later it got in his cancer. I was going to school for nursing. I started out going full time, then went to part time nightly and hired a nurse to stay with him at night, but she ended up stealing from us, so I just put a hold on it all and stayed home to take care of him myself. Which I was fine doing. Because it meant he was alive and with me. But now he's on comfort care at home and given pain medicine. The hospice home nurse comes throughout the week.
I would do this for my whole life if it meant keeping my dad here. But, he is in the active phase of dying. The nurse says he may only have days to live, at most.
My dad goes to sleep again soon after reminding me and I go to the kitchen to heat up some soup. I haven't eaten all day and I have a headache coming on. Closing the door on the microwave, I carry the bowl of soup and sit down, picking up crackers along the way.
I hear my dad groaning. He does this often. I go back in the living room where he's set up and I push the bolus to add more pain medicine.
Returning to the kitchen, I eat my soup. After putting the bowl in the sink, I return to the chair that has basically been my second home and pick up the book I've been reading.
***
Later that evening, I go to the grocery store for items we are in desperate need of. Returning home, I sense that something is wrong.
NO! My dad is still a bit warm to the touch, but he isn't breathing. He is gone. And I wasn't here! Why did I leave?
I sat for what seemed like hours holding my dad's hand, now cool to the touch, weeping. I have to call the nurse and she will call everyone else. I need to call my aunts. They were going to be here tomorrow. It's too late.
After I finally gather myself together, I talk to the nurse. She is on her way out. She will be calling the coroner's office. I don't want to let him go. I call my aunts next.
"Hello, Rhonda? What's wrong?" My aunt's panicked voice comes over the line. I begin sobbing again.
"He's gone Aunt Lynn! He died while I was at the store. I only went for at most an hour. Why did I leave?" I sounded desperate.
I heard her crying. "Why didn't I come out sooner? He loved your mother so! He was like my own brother!"
We spent about twenty minutes both crying and talking about my dad. She tried reassuring me that people will often wait until loved ones aren't around to pass away and that he knew I was there. I just had a hard time accepting what she was saying. She will still be here tomorrow, just to be with me for a few days. To help with planning his funeral and pick the things needed, like flowers and a headstone.
***
It's been an hour since the coroner took my dad's body away. But I keep staring at his bed and all the equipment. The nurse said the hospice agency will be here tomorrow to take everything away.
I don't know what to do with myself. I keep crying, even though I knew this time was coming. I thought I had a few days left with him. I feel angry. I don't know what to do with this emotion. I'm not angry at dad, just the situation. I hate cancer, I hate what it did to him. I hate everything it took.
I can't look at this stuff anymore so I lay down. I stare at the picture on my bedside table of me and him. We took it last year before his cancer diagnosis. It came a month later. I trace mt hands over his face, tears blurring my vision. I pick it up and hold it against my chest. Then, I fall asleep.
I didn't mean to take a nap, but crying takes it out of you. I woke up when I heard the doorbell. Who's here now?
I look through the peephole and see my neighbor, Sue. I open the door and let her in. She's been my friend for a few years.
"Oh, sweety. I'm so sorry. I saw the people earlier."
I just nodded, tearing up again.
"I'm sorry. Do you want anything to drink?"
"Oh, no. Thank you though. I'm here to take care of you. Do you need anything? Do you need to talk?"
"Honestly? I'm exhausted from crying and just... everything. But I have to get the equipmentready for pickup tomorrow," I admit.
"Then go lay down and I will gather the stuff up. Go on," Sue ushered me.
"Are you sure?"
"Goodness yes. Now go on."
