My father’s arms couldn’t stop moving, even when my mother and I were holding his hands, he kept flailing. Almost as if being confined to a hospital bed during his last hours was the worst form of torture he could imagine.
Watching him was the worst torture I could imagine. I couldn’t even begin to think about how much pain he was in. I wanted to take that pain away. I wanted so much to help him during his last days.
I knew they’d be his last days — his last hours. As I got onto the plane to leave North Carolina I just knew that would be the last time I saw my father. There was no doubt in my mind. I had packed my bags knowing I’d be attending a funeral in the near future. When our social worker called to warn me about how bad it was I got angry. I screamed. I cried. I don’t think she knew what do with me.