As things turned out, I had the initial date wrong. The date my father went into hospice was January 4th. In late December, my father celebrated his birthday. Evidently, he thought he was turning 100 (99 actually), so my siblings threw him a 100-year-old b-day party.
Through text messages, I learned that not long after his birthday, things went downhill for him, with him going into hospice on Jan. 4th. It must have been a rather quick transition for him. On that January Saturday, he evidently spoke to my mother (his wife), who’d been dead for at least several years now.
I took that to mean that his time was near, but I ended up being wrong. My sister recently texted he had gotten stronger lately. My initial reaction upon reading that message was “too bad”. Part of me thinks I should feel bad for feeling that way, but I don’t. And I don’t feel guilty for feeling that way.
This month has been a most interesting month, with all sorts of stresses and not just my father. All month so far, I’ve been doing deep breathing and reminding myself “everything always works out for me”.
When I first found out about my father’s condition, I pondered whether or not to go to the west coast to see him. The only reason I would go out there was to make sure that yes, he really is dying. I kept doing deep breathing and reminding myself that everything works out for me. And indeed, it has. My youngest brother ended up taking a picture of my father lying in his hospital bed at his house and texted it to everyone.
I did not recognize the individual in the photo. I compared it to a family photo from 20 years ago at my sister’s wedding. I was able to match the nose in both photos. That’s the only way I knew it was my father. It had been quite a few years since I’d seem my father, so I didn’t initially recognize his face.
More later.