I've been thinking about Dad's progress and what I can do to memorialize his remaining journey. And while the private me shies from sharing emotional ups and downs and the stoic Dane in me takes over much of the time, there's the value of being able to refresh my memory later.

So, yes. I've decided to discuss this publicly.

I still don't know what kind of brain tumor it is; I only have the vaguest idea of where it's placed. That's unsatisfactory to me. When we learned of Dad's multiple myeloma, I was all over the internet researching.

In the long run, does knowing or not knowing matter? The net result will be the same, after all. But naming our fears is a way of facing them. And I'd like to know all the ins and outs of this one, rather than have it hang over me like my personal boogieman.

But it's hard watching a parent dwindle in the use of his/her facilities.

There are times when Dad is truly with us: sharing his opinion on taxes, admitting he did sideswipe that car two weeks ago, rather than the other way around. And then there are the things that are Not-Dad. The confusion about the day of the week. The multiple questions about money. The grousing about the fees the hospice will charge. (Okay, that's definitely Dad, but not being convinced otherwise, isn't.)

There's information that I'm still trying to put into perspective: the refinancing of the house because he had to declare bankruptcy. The gambling at the casino nearby that, apparently, led to that situation.

Yes, it's a fast-growing cancer, but I'm wondering just how fast. When did the confusion slip into his life? Were there neurochemical changes before the tumor grew? Before his heart attack? After?

Plus I find it ironic that he developed this cancer after he'd finally given up the smoking. After 55 years or so of smoking.

There's the acceptance of the fact that it's cancer. After all, his brother died of one variety, why not Dad?

And while the mental deterioration is the worst to see, (my Dad was always right there, ready to listen and analyze, dispense advice, fix whatever the problem was,) there's also the acknowledgement that his body will be the next to fail. That's evidenced by the adult diapers, the disposable bed liners, the plastic urinal tucked in the back bedroom's closet.

The hospice has taken him off some of his medications, and thank heavens. Why take that cholesterol medication?

I can only hope there are others that we can remove from him. The kind thing, knowing what he will be facing in a little while, would be a heart attack, not this gradual slide.

Sure it's harder on us, the family, but oh, so much better than the transition back towards loss of self and infancy.

Which I'm mourning most of all.

And which mourning, thank heavens, is happening. I've teared up three times while writing this entry, but only one other time since getting the news.

Maybe acknowledging my grief and allowing it surface will be a good thing.

(And silly me, consciously thinking that my grief at letting go of Dad will add depth to my characters. Talk about stupidity. But Amber, I might be able to finish the ashes story sooner rather than later, you know?)

Rewriting: a step in the right direction.

No, it's not the same as actual fresh, spiffy new words, and I've never figured out how to count rewriting. If I count pages I begin with, the page count is typically less. If I count words, it's less. Yet, the rewriting outcome is usually positive.

Mostly.

The Dad story for today:

Dad: (after struggling to get up out of bed) Where's the toilet?
Mom: (half-asleep) In the bathroom.
Dad: G-d-mmit, Donna, you're always moving things!

(Yes, because Mom has put roller skates on that toilet and just leaves it anywhere in the house.)

Yes, people, it's all about laughter in the midst of pain and sorrow.

I've passed on my Wiscon room to a deserving first-timer, and my next chore is to rid myself of my Wiscon membership. *Mourns not seeing everyone again* But hey, it's Dad's birthday that weekend, and a small sacrifice, really.

Today is all about housework. Tomorrow, school. Tuesday is a CELDT training workshop in LA, Wednesday and Thursday back to school, with Thursday night scheduled for a trip back to Fresno and most likely through the weekend.

I would just like to say that I wish substitutes came with automatic lesson plans, because ugh. An hour or a bit more to prep before I can even think about leaving.

Thoughts of Dad and worries about Mom slam into me without warning. We did put Dad's name on the prayer list at church last week. This morning was the first time we heard his name. I cringed. Tom really should have provided diacritical marks, I guess. And I should have expected the pronunciation change that promotion him to Christ status. After all, I grew up with Crist being mispronounced all the time. (Nor did it help that our next-to-neighbor's name was Jesus....) But who knew there was a direct descendent, right?

Nor should that irritate me like it seems to be doing.

I had a conversation with my youngest sister re: Dad and company yesterday. Apparently everyone, except Dad, was in tears at one point or another. I'm doubting that most of the family are a: able to redirect Dad when he wants to do something he can't, like drive, or b: able to boss him as though he's a child, because I'm pretty sure that's the only way we're going to get him to take the meds. Sure being bigger than Dad helps, but we're not going to have Jon or the spousling there all the time. Everyone's going to have to learn to project authority.

But until I'm there myself and dealing with the situation, I guess I shouldn't talk. It's too easy deciding from a distance how one should handle him and far more difficult putting it into practice.

But break/introspection time is over. It's off to work.

When I'm not at school, I'm home in Fresno. When I'm not home with Mom and Dad, I'm in school. Or asleep.

There's not too much room in my life for anything else at the moment. And a phone call is enough to set me off for the rest of the day, so the new rule is "No more drinks after not-so-good news" because I must fight off the weepies.

This week, Dad is transitioning from walker to wheelchair, and he only relied on the walker for five days? six? before moving on. I am certain it will not be a happy transition. Dad hates anything that reminds him of his infirmities.

Last night was two Haldol, two Thorazine, a sleeping pill, and 20 mg. of morphine.

Net result?

Not a thing that my mom and brother could tell. And this brother was an ER nurse, so you'd think he'd have seen it all.

Even if he's not sleeping much, at least he's not in pain. That's been a major issue for him for several years, and I'm grateful.

I worry most about Mom. Even though she's holding up currently, it's hard. He's got breathing issues and then we don't like to recall Dad's current nasty outbreaks. Things he would have never said aloud, he's now saying to people's faces. It is not good. I can only hope that my mom and siblings can remember that Dad is not the sum of these words.

My sleep is filled with weird dreams. Thankfully, I have end of the year paperwork and crafts to keep my mind occupied during most of the day. I have called a few friends and chatted with them, looking for some kind of solace. Laughter does help. Even when it's about something hurtful.

Bottom line, though, is that I'm giving up alcohol for the meantime. It's far easier to be stoic/put on a good front without it.

It's trite, I suppose, but it hurts to say goodbye. I remind myself that we've had the time, and some people don't get that.

In many ways, we are blessed.

But mostly with the father we've had.

You know, when I hoped for Dad to leave fast, I'm not sure I meant this fast.

According to the hospice nurse, he has a week. Max.

In so many ways, that's good news for him. (Baddish news for his family, but I think we're all mature enough to wish Dad a brief illness and a peaceful passing than otherwise.)

I find myself trying to do as much at school as I can. My cums are pretty much finished, other than adding the individual students' photos, attendance days, and test scores sheets. I have one more subtest for LA to give (that's tomorrow), and two math tests. I have report cards and the little checking I need to accomplish on my kids who haven't passed the standards already.

I've got tomorrow organized and next week's homework turned in. Tomorrow I'll throw in lesson plans for next week, the homework for the week after, and... oh, I don't know. Odds and ends.

There's no decision quite yet on when I run to Fresno, but it'll be most likely tomorrow night or Friday morning. Thank heavens I got the puppets done -- all except for the kids sewing them.

The way Dad's going, I'm not trusting in that week.

Ang told me she thought Dad had a stroke in the night; his face looked weird today.

I feel guilty that my youngest and middle sister are there with my mom and helping, but I'm not. (I don't guilt myself over the brothers for some reason. Why is that? Sibling rivalry surfacing after all these years?)

While I'm willing to write, even thinking about writing, I can't quite bring myself to open a file and type anything. Everything I'd touch would turn to sorrow. Even the things meant to have a happy ending.

So, no.

May is going to go down as filling the well. Unfortunately, I'm filling it with tears.

I do hope the salt adds flavor.

As for all of you out there thinking good thoughts and dispensing wise advice, thank you so much. It's very comforting.

Dad died Friday at 11:38A, or maybe it was 12:38P. By that evening I could not remember the hour, even though my brother had asked me the exact time to record for the death certificate. (Jon's a licensed nurse, and he was able to certify the death, instead of someone from the hospice.)

I stayed up the night before. I'd had to give Dad his meds at midnight, and then again at 4A. I spent time that afternoon lying on Mom's bed and holding Dad's hand. He came to long enough for the family to flood the room and talk to him one last time, and then he fell back into the coma.

There's an intimacy to a death experienced at home -- far more so than that of my grandfather's or my grandmother's. The nursing skills were not particularly high; the morphine dispensed by eye dropper, the other meds dissolvable. The trick was getting them into his mouth. We had to change his position every two hours. We got to help with his final bath that morning. I had to suction out his mouth a few times, and while I was first semi-horrified by the task, I knew I was making Dad easier.

All recoil to physical grossness fades once that insight becomes clear.

The process of dying is never pretty, nor are the tasks of the caregivers. Dad's actual death brought relief for us and a release for him. But caring for our dad was a gift all of us willingly gave in return for his love and care of us throughout the years.

Mom's been a trooper, as has my grandmother. We played King of the Road and sang along. The little ones of the family provided joy, as did the animals. (What to see something funny? Dot, my mom's cat, outside the sliding window, standing guard over the dog's food dish on the inside. Harley was more than a little upset by Dot's ability to usurp his food dish even through glass. Who's the alpha male in the pack? Dot.)

I'm glad to be home for a bit, though, and back to the usual routine. We'll return to Mom's next weekend and have a private family memorial when we lay Dad's ashes to rest.

Thanks to all of you who've thought of us or prayed. I'm positive Dad's passage was made the easier by your gift.

Most of this week has passed in a daze: either at ninety miles an hour at school, because there's just so much to do, or exhausted once I get home.

I did manage to rewrite two stories and whip them back out into the The Submission Zone, (kind of like The Twilight Zone, except you know that whoever is reading it is human. Of course, I could be biased, seeing that I've read plenty of slush myself.)

And I collected two more rejects, so life is back to normal on some levels.

We're back at Mom's later this weekend. We're interring Dad on Tuesday, his birthday, and having a lunch together afterwards. All of us. I feel for that restaurant. But Mom, Ang, and I wandered around the walls where Mom bought two spaces side by side, and visited all the people we'd known. Grandma and Grandpa are there. My Aunt Connie and Uncle Fred are there, crammed into one space. Aunt Connie's in a plastic bag and squashed in, however. That's why Mom made sure to get two spots. She didn't want to be in a plastic bag. (I'll have to ask how she feels about paper, though, or a Tupperware™ container.)

Yes, I'm still laughing.

I'm having a difficult time coming to grips with the fact that Dad is gone, though. It's like he's stepped into another room and he's either watching a football game or smoking outside. He's hanging on the perimeter, not quite present, but not unpresent, either. I don't know how long the transition's going to take, but there's enough to cope with for the next few weeks that I won't have time to confront things head on.

The dream life, though, oh, gosh. If I have to wander through one more subterranean passage I will choke.

I'm hoping everyone is having a wonderful time at Wiscon. While I'm sorry I had to cancel, I'm satisfied that I did the right thing. Someone better be drinking a Guinness for me, though. I rely on chance seeing that I've actually seen her consume one.

And now, it's off to work. I've got the latest issue to organize (and blessings on Amber and Leah and Jaime for pulling everything together for me. It should be easy, although a piece of myself is still crossing its fingers.)

Finally, hug everyone you love. Everyone. You never know how long you're going to have them close enough to hug.