Dad, final

So.

As recounted earlier, my dad was dying of cancer. I was living with my parents, while my family lived in Dayton, 4 hours away, trying to sell our house.

And watching this proud vital man reduced to someone who required me -- me, of all inadequate people! -- to help him with the most simple of tasks was tearing me up. Each day became harder than the last, until I felt I was at the very end of my frayed string. Each night, I went to bed convinced I couldn't, emotionally, handle one more day.

But each morning, I woke up and figured "okay, one more. I think I can make it through one more." And so I did...but daily, I would cry to the heavens for my house to sell so my family could come join me so I wouldn't have to do this anymore. I couldn't just leave him, you see, but if my house sold and my family moved up to Cleveland, I'd move into that house.

Interestingly, though, after a while, that feeling started to subside. One late night, submerged in the deepening darkness of a sleepless 3:00 a.m., it occured to me: maybe my house hadn't sold for exactly this reason. If the house sold, I'd not be able to be there for him. Maybe -- just maybe -- I was meant to be there for him.

Call it God. Call it fate. Call it whatever you want. All I know is that once I decided I was meant to take care of him, I realized that all would be well eventually. Once I decided simply to pay attention to his needs, it got much easier for me. Not easy , certainly, but easier.

So. I stayed with him, did whatever I could for him, and stopped worrying about the sale of my house.

Finally, on a bright sunny September 23rd, he died. At about 9:00 a.m.

At 3:00 p.m. that same day, my house sold.

That very same day.