I thought I had. There was my Uncle Dadie, who I watched have a rapid decline during my third semester of college. He died days before my final exams. I remember the exaggerated bone structure of his face and how it looked like his skin was so stretched over those bones that he couldn't close his mouth.
I remember my grandmother and how it seemed as though you could see both bones in her forearms and every detail in her shoulders. I remember how shallow her breathing became.
I remember my granddaddy. My granddaddy could still speak the last time I saw him. He grabbed my hand and begged me not to go. He was scared, he said, and he wanted me to stay with him.
Truth be told, I couldn't have taken it if my daddy had done that to me, and I think that is probably the deeper reason that I didn't come right away.
I don't have to worry about that though. My daddy can no longer speak.
He can't eat.
He can't drink.
He can't even blink.
They can't get his blood pressure to register.
There is absolutely no logical reason that he should be alive, and yet he still instinctively fights. I am both proud of him and slightly exasperated at the same time.
It is exhausting to watch someone you love die. You have to still live while doing it. Momma still has to communicate with the seemingly millions of people who want to know about Daddy.
She still has to eat and drink.
She still has to take her chemo everyday.
She still feels like she has to be the momma, when in reality, her husband is dying.
She is losing her soul mate. The absolute love of her life. Her very best friend.
As much as I'm going to miss my daddy, the hardest part of this is watching my momma hurt and not be able to help her. She loves him so much, and it didn't matter what state he was in - she just wanted him to be with her.
We are all tired. I know Daddy is the most tired of all.
He looks like a skeleton with skin. His unblinking eyes are so deep in their sockets. It's time.
It's time, Daddy.
