My Father

I wasn't going to write anything about this here. I'm not sure what changed my mind. After I got off the phone with my brother yesterday afternoon (the topic was my father and hospice),  I went to my room, crawled onto the bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour or two.

I often daydream about building a brick oven. A few months ago, I had a discussion with some people at work. That "what would you do if you were suddenly rich" conversation. My response was to quit my job and work on the brick oven full time. I've got plans, drawings, some of the needed tools, local material suppliers lined up, and brick prices. This daydream is probably bordering on unhealthy obsession. While staring at the ceiling through watery eyes I realized that no matter which design I ended up building, what the outside of the oven looked like, where the oven was, or any other detail - every single oven dream includes me serving a pizza to my dad.

It can never happen. And realizing that made me even sadder.

I spent the day with my father. His eyes were closed most of the day. Not really sleeping but not awake either. Not in pain but clearly uncomfortable. As I listened to the hum of the oxygen machine and my father's labored breathing, anger was combined with my sadness.

Fuck you, cancer. He deserves better than this.