Waiting for My Dad to Die
And taking stock of my life choices.
My dad is officially in hospice, and I’ve driven down to Virginia from NYC to be by his side for what we all know are his final moments. (He has cancer, which I’ve written about here and here.)
Really, I’m here for my mom who is holding it together (kinda) by disassociating (completely). Traveling to be with her was something I promised my dad I’d do weeks ago, but I’d have done it anyway.
His last real meal was on Saturday, and I think he genuinely expected to starve to death overnight. But the process of a body shutting down from lack of food takes a lot longer than that. 10 to 21 days, according to Google. (Yes, I Googled it.)
I arrived Sunday and by Monday afternoon, I already had the distinct privilege of cleaning up after one of his failed enemas.
“Look at my little pecker!” he joked after we’d made our slow journey from the hospital bed in the living room to the guest bathroom at the front of the house. His attempt to make light of a dark situation.
“What if I got on all fours with my ass in the air?” he wheezed between labored breaths. “Could you help get it in there?”
What a question to be asked before noon.
Not knowing I’d be assisting with the rectal insertion of a digestive aid, I gently explained that this was an activity better suited for his circumstances 5 minutes prior to me helping guide his walker down the hall, and how it would’ve been easier to do that while he was in bed, on his side.
“Well, it’s not like I do this every day,” he snapped.
“And you think because I’m gay, I’m up in New York administering daily enemas just for fun?” I shot back.
We both laughed at that. Because what else can you do.
He tried to insert it himself. Failed. And within minutes handed me a shit-covered bottle with half the saline still inside. “Save it for later,” he said.
(I did not.)
I then watched him change his own diaper. Helped him back into bed after collapsing from the exhausting journey. And later that night, emptied his portable urinal of the darkest, most dehydrated piss I’ve ever had the displeasure of smelling. (I’m not exaggerating! It was as brown as shit from from a butt and the stench practically singed my nose hairs clean off.)
How do you tell a dying man he should be in a facility, and not at home? That it would be easier for all of us if he was in a place equipped to give him the end of life care he deserves?
You can’t.
Because he also deserves the mental security and comfort that comes with being in a familiar place.
But boy does it suck!
After the dirty douche debacle his hospice nurse informed us she wouldn’t be able to give him a bath or change his bedsheets until Tuesday at noon. So he slept in a semi-soiled state as he mumbled incoherently between morphine doses. Something about the hands of a clock one hour, then the eyes of a phone another. Like a weak little oracle meeting with members of the afterlife in between naps and speaking their cryptic messages into our realm.
But when he’s awake, he’s all there. Fully lucid. Which makes all of this worse. He watches Antiques Roadshow reruns while I take work calls and dutifully answer emails. I’m in one room discussing who to put on the cover of Cosmopolitan while he’s in the other whispering “take me now” just loud enough for all to hear.
It’s bleak.
And watching this process is sending me into a low-grade existential tailspin. This unfiltered reminder about the brevity of life has me reconsidering everything. (And I do mean everything.)
Wondering whether I’m living with enough intention. Whether I’m on the right path. Whether I’m making decisions my future self will thank me for, or just more choices that look good on LinkedIn and only serve the brand-safe version of myself in this present moment.
I’ve played by the rules for over three decades. I’ve worked hard. I’ve made it this far. And yet, there’s still so much I want to do.
Do I say fuck it all and quit the job that a million girls would kill for? Throw caution to the wind and see what happens?
I’m not sure.
And that’s the disorienting part. I’m really not sure.
Because when you’re sitting beside death for days on end, the unanswered questions don’t just echo in your subconscious, they scream. And I can’t seem to turn the volume down.
Watching him wither away has me frantically taking stock of the mounting to-do list in my life.
There’s the immediate stuff looming overhead:
Make sure our CPA actually files our 2024 taxes (assuming we didn’t mess them up on extension)
Keep selling my dad’s vintage clutter on eBay
List the mountain of designer castaways my husband and I have accumulating in our closet on Grailed and Depop
Stain the woodwork in our apartment
File my first-ever cover profile within the next week (something I should be working on instead of writing this)
Make sure my mom doesn’t completely fall apart
Then there’s the big-picture stuff:
Help my husband mount a capsule collection worthy of fortune and fame
Write a book (essays, of course)
Make art again (painting, drawing, quilting… all of it)
Have visible abs by 40 and maintain them into my 50s (and beyond)
Buy an old house and restore it to its former glory
Build a koi pond and plant a garden around it
Open a store that sells beautiful things that nobody needs but everybody wants
Turn my niece into a global diva
Show my mom that her life isn’t over just because his is
All of which feel impossible to achieve with my current title and workload. But equally impossible without my current salary and benefits.
A classic double-edged sword. Security versus soul.
Fully me right now, btw:
So who knows? Maybe after my dad dies, I’ll make some snap decision and walk away from magazines entirely in some noble effort to live a quieter more authentic life. Or maybe things will just come into focus, and I’ll keep marching on until the veil of corporate security is lifted, letting time do its thing with the publishing industry as it simultaneously cures me of my grief (as it’s designed to do.)
I don’t have the answers. I can’t even pretend to.
So for now, I’ll just publish my thoughts online. (Better out than in!) And continue to wait for the inevitable.