My Father, My Hero, My Loss

My Father, My Hero, My Loss According to Western superstition, Friday the 13th is considered an unlucky day. This is especially true in my life. April 13, 2018, is the day that I experienced the loss of a loved one firsthand. My father had been ill for a couple of months, and as a result, I moved in with my parents so that I could help take care of my father. My mother and I were my father’s primary caregivers. But, we also had a night nurse who helped take care of him as my mother and I slept. On that morning, as I approached the hospital bed, the sight of my father pierced my heart. He lay there, staring straight at the ceiling. He looked terrified. He had dementia and did not understand what was happening, and I had to calm him down to make him feel comfortable and get him to wear an oxygen mask to help with his breathing. After hours of trying to calm him down, his condition only worsened. He was not responding to any of the medication, and he slowly began to drift away. I saw him take his last breath, and I did not need someone to tell me that he was gone, I saw him leave. I stared at him as he lay there. He was as lifeless as a rock. His hand was still in mine, and all I could do was tighten my grip. I am startled by the fact that I watched my father draw his last breath when a few years back, he watched me draw my first. He was there when I took my first steps, he was there when I learned how to swim, and he was there on my first day of kindergarten. My father was present in all the significant moments of my life. My father had been suffering from dementia for a couple of years. This caused a decline in his thinking and reduced his ability to perform everyday activities. Added to this, he developed lung cancer even though he had not smoked for over twenty-five years. When my father fell ill, I also fell ill. My illness was that of concern and distress. I also had to carry a surplus of optimism. When I got my father to walk around the compound with his walker, complaining and groaning the entire walk, I felt like a cheerleader cheerleading for my favorite player. At times, the triumphs were minor, like getting him to finish a bowl of fruit salad. Other times, all I could cheer for was him having a peaceful night without having to wake my mother up to administer some morphine. Watching my father die was impossible, painful, and grievous. After months of x-rays, biopsies, and medications, it all came to a sharp decline. My parents’ house was similar to a mini-pharmacy. Almost all surfaces were filled with prescription bottles. But, I would rather have a house filled with medicine bottles and half-eaten plates of food if it means having my dad back. I miss spending ti...