This week my father’s oncologist told us there was nothing more to be done. We are completely out of options and it is time for hospice. Hospice means the cancer has won and the end is here. Hospice changes everything.
I look at my sweet Daddy and I see him in pain. I see him fight for enough oxygen to breathe. He tries to smile and talk to us when we visit, but he searches for words that he can’t seem to find. I sit by him and I struggle for what I should say. I wonder what he needs to hear, now that we are at the end. So there are lots of silences filled with loving looks and squeezed hands and patted shoulders.
It is impossible to say who is comforting whom.
I’ve known this time was coming. I’ve known it for months. But now it’s here and I am devastated. And angry. I’m so very angry. I’ve never been so mad in my entire life. I want to scream and hit something and stomp my feet on the floor. I want to punch something until it hurts as much as I do right now. I want to shout at God, “Why?!? Why are you doing this to such a wonderful man? Hasn’t he suffered enough? Haven’t we suffered enough?”
All this anger scares me. Because it is not me, it is not who I truly am. In my head I know there is a merciful Father in Heaven who loves my Daddy more than I do. In my head I know that there is an eternal plan that transcends all this pain and ugliness. Yet, at the same time, my heart is so full of fury and bile. I bite my lip and I clench my fists and I try to push that rage some place far away from me but it is too heavy to move.
It doesn’t budge. And I think it’s going to crush me.