Last night, half drunk on my bottle of Shiraz, I read through my entire blog, everything I've written since I began. I was curious as to what it read like in one big gulp. Curious as to what the experience is like for all these newcomers.

It was kind of tough to read. Parts were embarrassing, parts I wished I hadn't written, parts I was proud of. I realized that I swear a lot. There were things I'd written that I forgot even happened.

It was really tough to read most of July, the progression of getting my Dad home, realizing that he was going to die and then reading through it actually happening. It was kind of heartbreaking, because I knew it was coming and when but the girl writing those things didn't.

When I first began writing here I had no idea that this would be the year in which I would lose my father. I remembered a night back in March when I was in Las Vegas with Mike and his parents. The three of them were up in the rooms getting ready for dinner and I was alone, walking around the casino. My Dad called on my cell phone and wanted to tell me about the doctor's appointment he'd had that day.

I couldn't find a quiet place to talk to him, the machines all around me, ringing and bleeping. I couldn't even find an exit. Finally I settled on a relatively quiet corner near the bathrooms and listened to him as he told me that the doctor had informed him that his prostate cancer was coming back, that, at best, he had a couple of years before it really took over. I remember starting to cry on the phone and his hushing me, telling me to have fun and enjoy Las Vegas, that he only told me right then because he knew I'd be mad at him if he waited. He said we'd discuss it further when I got back.

After we hung up I retreated to the bar and ordered a beer. I took big swallows and peeled at the label, trying not to cry. I must have looked pretty sad because the bartender started talking to me. His name was Percy. I still remember it because it was such a nice name. I told him I thought so and he asked mine. We decided that we each had nice names, old fashioned and comforting somehow.

When Percy got busy with customers I went back to thinking about my Dad. I remember calculating that I would be almost 27 in two years. I tried it out in my head: I was twenty-seven when my Dad died. I thought about the things we could do together in the next two years, thought about what I might do myself in two years, who I would be when my Dad died. None of it sounded acceptable. Tears slipped down my cheeks and spattered onto the blackjack game built into the bar surface, magnifying and spreading out over the ace of hearts.

This afternoon I went down to his condo. I cried as usual, upon entering. I don't miss him, don't feel his absence in my life until the second I walk in that door. Today I went into his bedroom and sat in the black office chair that I always sat in when he sick and in bed. Excepting the two mattresses stacked against the wall, his bedroom is pretty much the same. I sat next to his night table like I used to and everything was still there, his pulse-ox monitor and the note cards that I held up to him in the last couple of days.

Those last few days with him flooded through my head. It was such a quick transgression. He went deaf, he got confused, he went unconscious, he died. All within about four days. I remembered sitting next to him and holding his hand as he stared blankly at the walls. That last day I tried to memorize what his fingers looked like, the nail beds and the deep creases between his finger joints.

I remember that last day, when Mike wrecked my car and I'd been sitting vigil for almost 24 hours, I finally just freaked out and started sobbing, holding his hand. He was unconscious and didn't respond. I've wrecked my car several times since I've been here and I wrecked my old one a few times in Atlanta when I was in highschool and everytime, the first person I called was my Dad.

I remember being so horrified that I was crying and sitting next to him but that he wasn't responding. It was the first time that I'd cried in front of my Dad and he hadn't immediately enveloped me in his arms, hadn't told me that everything would be okay, hadn't handed me the phone and told me who to call and what to say. I remember realizing that this was how it was going to be from now on.
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