Goodbye

Dear Daddy,

I think this will be the last letter I write you while you're in this life with me. I've known for nine months now that this day would come. I knew I wanted your words to keep with me after you were gone. I knew we wouldn't want to leave anything unsaid. But I always thought I would have one more chance. A warning. I thought I would know when it was time to ask you to write me one more letter. I thought I would know when you set foot in my house for the last time. I thought I would remember the last time I heard your laugh, heard your voice before it was weak and faded. When you kissed my babies goodbye before your trip to heaven. I thought we would have a chance to sit down and talk about your decision to come home. We would cry together and talk about how brave you've been and then you could gently go home. I thought I would know.

You grew weaker over the last month. I knew when they told you to start using a walker that it was getting closer. Last month we had such a good time at lunch. We sat outside at your favorite mexican restaurant and talked for hours. Then for our last lunch on the 21st we went to the chinese place. You were so weak, but your spirits were reignited because of the drop in your CA-19-9 numbers. But you were changing. It was like you were out of subjects. Disconnected. So, you took your chemo that day, but you didn't bounce back like you usually do. Every day that I called, you were feeling worse than the previous day. I wanted to have hope, Daddy, I really did. I tried so hard, but I just couldn't. Then you fell. The first time was Wednesday. Mom must've been so scared. You didn't want her to call anyone. I understood. You knew if you went to the hospital that you wouldn't make it out. I thought originally that it was just a cancer fear, but now I think that your body knew your soul was leaving- and you just didn't want to quit fighting. Then Friday you got out of bed by yourself and couldn't get up. She had to call the paramedics to get you off the floor and you were so mad. You wanted to come over to my house so badly Saturday so you could be with all of us. I should've known you wouldn't be able to come, but I really thought I would have you there one more time. We came over to see you Sunday. You made me go through the safe with you and look at important papers. We talked about how they would probably put you in the hospital for another plasma transfusion on Tuesday. I wondered if any transfusion could renew the spirit you had lost. Then Monday came. You couldn't get off the couch. We just couldn't wait for help anymore, Daddy. We were scared, so the ambulance took you to the hospital. You started fading there. You were tired and you seemed like you were confused. They told us that you didn't have any infections, so they were trying to find a diagnosis in order to admit you. I felt like screaming, "as if liver cancer isn't a diagnosis?" They finally took you upstairs where they told us you had infections. Then they said you didn't, then they said it was kidney failure, then it wasn't. On and on we went with them while you kept fading. I knew Monday night. I knew I needed to let go- that you needed to let go.

I finally had the courage to ask Lynn what cancer markers really meant. Every week for nine months I've wondered how high they would get before you died. She told me that she has never seen anyone alive with numbers as high as yours. Ever. I wondered how we could be so naive. Especially since your numbers were even higher last month when you were still with us. Then I just got so proud. So very, very proud of you. You are stronger than any patient she has ever seen in her career. She told us that she thought you needed to come home and rest.

I felt like you needed to know that you were the toughest patient they've ever had, so I told you. You woke up enough to look at me and say, "really?" I think you told me you had to think about it. I told you that you were tough enough to keep fighting if you wanted to, but that if you were too tired to fight anymore then you could sleep because you already won. You told me you were just to tired. I asked you to tell me one more story about you and me. Of course you told me how much you loved our Saturday morning dances. And oh, Daddy, I did too. Dancing with you made me who I am. I just want to beg you not to go, Daddy. Why didn't I dance with you one more time, Daddy?

This morning you woke up enough to hear the doctor tell you that he could keep giving you IV antibiotics for a few more days so that maybe you would wake up a little. Be more aware. More aware of what? So you and Mom talked and you told us you just wanted to go home. Here we were, exactly where I knew you wanted to be, and I panicked, Daddy. I got so scared that you were giving up because you thought WE didn't want to fight anymore. God, I hope you didn't think that. I told you over and over that we could keep fighting, but you're just so tired, Daddy. You're just not in there anymore. Did I want you to give up for ME, or for you? I feel so guilty, Daddy. You know I would fight with you until the end, right? I've fought with you every week, Daddy, I wouldn't give up now, but we just can't make it any better. I'm so sorry, Daddy. So sorry that I couldn't will you to be better, that I couldn't cause a miracle to happen. I'm sorry I listened to you when you said not to come to the last chemo appointment- even though they wouldn't let you have chemo. Why did I listen to you??!! Why didn't I listen to my heart?? I could have had one more lunch with you, Daddy, and I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for that. Did you know that was the last one, Daddy? If I let myself start thinking about all of the things I regret I don't think I can go on.

Here we are now. At home like you wanted to be. You won't take your medicine. You won't really wake up anymore. It hurts so much, Daddy. I'm trying to remember that last normal conversation I had with you and I can't right now. I miss you so much, Daddy. I want you here, but you're not really here, so then I start thinking you should go. What good is this now, Daddy? If I didn't already ask you, it's too late. Last chemo you told me to ask you anything I wanted. I really couldn't think of much because we've talked so much, but I asked you to tell me more about your childhood. How could you leave so quickly, Daddy? I'm not ready. I'm not ready for you to leave.

I left very early in the morning to get here Tuesday. It was so dark and foggy. I looked ahead and the road actually looked scary. I couldn't even see the road in front of me. Sometimes I would go down a hill and fog would actually surround me, but I kept going. Then I realized that the road was just like my life now. It's so very dark and scary, and I really just want to stop the car, but I know the road is still there even when I can't see it, so I keep driving. I kept driving to you, Daddy, just like I'll keep walking through life to get to you in Heaven. This morning it was a little lighter. Still foggy, but the sun was rising. I wondered if God was trying to teach me something. Trying to tell me that the sun would rise again and my fog will lift some day.




Oh, Daddy. Thank you. Thank you for being everything to me. Thank you for playing hide-and-go-seek with me on rainy days, for letting me be silly or sad, for pulling on my ponytails, for buying me a puppy, for letting me be myself, for pretending to be my angry boyfriend when I was being bullied, for always forgiving me, for always loving me. Thank you for showing us how to fight bravely, Daddy. My babies will always know how hard you fought to be their Papa. God help me, I'm going to miss you so much, Daddy. I'm so proud you were mine, and I'm so proud I'm yours. I won't be as scared to die now because I know my Daddy's waiting for me. Now sleep, Daddy. Please go home so you won't hurt anymore. It's time now, Daddy. It's going to be okay. I love you Daddy, always and forever.