two weeks ago i was expecting to spend last week in the ICU, waiting for a slow recovery, waiting maybe even for my dad to pass away in or right after surgery. i thought it would be like last time--no cake walk, certainly, but doable--a lot of quiet time at the hospital, a lot of helping my mom out around the house.

i must admit i was pretty surprised to essentially jet off last monday night to word that there would be no surgery. instead, hospice. instead, waiting, instead, "enjoying the quality of life that he has left." when we got there my mom kept saying how peaceful and right the decision felt. my brother said how much better my dad seemed since he had decided not to do the surgery, which honestly completely displaced my mind and heart because my dad was an absolute wreck: not really making eye contact with anyone. starting to cry when he was left alone in an empty room. weak and generally spending most of his time curled up in the fetal position on the couch. this was the peaceful option that was right? this was him in his better state?

they should add a tenth circle of hell because a hospice home is its own circle of hell. the nurses and the care are fantastic--my mom couldn't believe how many resources were available to her, and after all this time of having done it all alone--the pills, the appointments, the helping him shower--i am relieved for her. she is even thinking she will take respite and come visit us for a few days.

but oh, the quiet, unholy, longsuffering, understated hell of our family home last week. i have one brother who was so in shock that he would smile like a maniac during every conversation about death, every conversation about how to call hospice now, every conversation about how to help my dad in case they are home alone together.

my reaction was pretty similar. generally the last few weeks i have avoided thinking about it, avoided crying, avoided losing it. i told myself i was weathering it well. but then, the wednesday we were there, i woke up pretty much incontinent. okay... i can deal with that. but then that night i started throwing up, and i was that way all night, i couldn't even take a sip of water. there were a lot of conversations about how even as a little girl i felt stress as physical illness. it was post barf when my mom told me with the weirdest mix of horror and care in her eyes that if it was too much to handle emotionally i could go home and no one would think different. i told her i was fine and then barfed again and cried in my bed for an hour and then slept for 36 hours. when i started trying to get up i was so weak that i couldn't stand up for more than a few seconds. when i finally showered i got dressed and laid down with my hair in a towel and slept for a few more hours. this continued on into thursday when we came home, and i was still so unwell that i took friday off to stay home sick.

apparently i slept through the worst of it. through the nurse teaching them how to administer the anti seizure medication to my dad. through my dad's parents laughing in her face and arguing endless with my mom when she tried to explain hospice; through my grandpa saying that he had blabbed everything to my dad's boss, even though my mom tried so hard to keep them on a need to know basis so she could continue getting paychecks. through my mom exploding on everyone and leaving the house for hours at a time.

all this time, for two and a half years, my dad has been in denial about the fact that he would never get better. there are a lot of cancer patients who live with true joy, who truly understand their limits, and who go on living in the fullest sense. this is not and has never been my dad. even when the tumor returned and they came back from the doctor's appointment he told us he wanted to be around for more weddings, grandkids, etc. my mom had to remind him that no, even best case scenario, he wouldn't be. fast forward a maybe-surgery then no surgery and now hospice and he has finally seemed to imagine it is the end. the wednesday i got sick he had asked us to take him out to a bunch of stores and one thing he looked at were these new, expensive, special bike pedals he could use to ride his stationary bike... which he will probably never ride again. it was a lot of that. it's like he's scared absolute shitless but his mind still can't comprehend that this is not another crescendo but a grand, closing diminuenco. the only other thing my mom said about his decision about the surgery was that he was more afraid of recovering from surgery than he was of going on hospice. it is in no unkindness and in no bitterness that i say that it seems to me there could be no normalcy or breath or good "quality of life" times after having to make such a decision based solidly on fear. it's not his fault; it's not anyone's fault.

i wish i could say there were good, sweet things, too. i suppose getting to spend time with my dad before i know he will pass should be. but honestly it's not as if he is in a process of acceptance, or able to look on the bright side, or like there is any actual peace in it.

i was mostly feeling better until i came back to work this morning and everyone asked me how my long vacation was. i guess from now on it will be weathering stupid comments and getting by my menial life, trying not to throw the fuck up from the stress, while i wait weeks or months for the call.