My Dad died 40 years ago on the 29th of August. It was the end of a long painful journey for all of us. Liver cancer ravaged him along with cirrhosis. And no, he didn't drink himself to death. But he was a workaholic. Quiet, dry sense of humor and to finish what he started sums him up.
It took him several years to die. We spent a great deal of time taking care of him. Never once did I regret it. It cut into my life. Much of my time was spent at home. Sure, I got out and ran with friends, saw movies etc. But I always came home to help take care of Dad. Never gave it a second thought. I sure as hell didn't feel sorry for myself. I grieved at his condition but we still found time to talk and smile. I believe I got to know my Dad better oddly enough because of it. Perhaps because we had little time and we tried to make the most of it.
At no time did he try to tell me what to do. He merely hoped I learned by example and would learn to be all I could be. That's pretty much what happened, and with a lot of bumps and mistakes, I'm here.
After he died, I did doubt. I asked why did he go. I even resented him for a time. I forgot about that time together. I wallowed in self pity. Through trial and error, I realized my life was up to me. I could either continue with 'woe is me' or I could make something of myself and remember our lives together and go on.
I am here Dad. I never gave up. And now I'm raising a son and daughter. I tell them about you and to never forget. To make up their own minds what they want to do. To have a purpose and to live free. No saints, but human beings. Through it all love never dies.
21 hours ago