The Last Time?

Two of my dad's siblings have come to visit this week.  I love them dearly, but haven't seen them in a very long time.  The unspoken subtext of the visit is...they need to see him before he's gone.

So, will this be the last time they ever get to see their big brother?  Does this mean that the ones who didn't come will never see him on this earth again?

They have a strong faith of a life together in the hereafter, so there's that thought.  See you on the other side!  But it's the finality of this side that I'm struggling with lately.  I don't want it to be that way for them, to never see each other again.  I know...it happens to everyone.  The circle of life.  Yada, yada.  But...

...I don't want to be without him.

Memorial Day weekend reminded me of the days when a warm-weather holiday meant Dad would cook out for us.  Ribs, chicken...all slathered in barbecue sauce.  I look at him now, so thin and weakened.  And again, I wonder, have we done that for the last time already?  Most likely so. It's a memory now.

I'm having a hard time.  I don't talk to anyone about it because there is no one to talk to.  I'd only make it harder for those people around me who are also hurting because of this.  But I'm finding it all sad and infuriating and unfair and unbearable.

And I'm not at all ready to deal with my sister and how she takes over a death.  She wraps her arms around it and makes it "hers."  No one has ever been entitled to grief like my sister.  And that's to the exclusion of others.  She wants you to be aware that your grief is so much smaller and less significant than hers.  She disallows yours.  She takes it away.  It's maddening, and I won't be able to tolerate it this time, I'm afraid.

So, I will cry on your shoulder, Dear Diary.

My shoulder is given to the others in my life who are having struggles with this phase of our family's life.  No one is saying, "He's dying," but it hangs in the air.  He's gotten so thin and tired.  He's lost over 100 pounds now.  He wears out easily, but he's trying all he can.  He's at a baseball game right now, with Son.  They need to have some time together, doing something fun.  He won't make it all the way through, but that's not what counts.  Being together is what counts.

Bear with me, Dear Diary.  I'm having a struggle, and you are where I must turn to work it out.