beecha

netbrainer, I'm so sorry for your loss. It's completely awful. I actually had to stop myself today when someone emailed me a picture of my son. My first thought was, "I can't wait to send this to dad." Lost him two months ago to the day tomorrow. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, other times it feels like so impossibly long ago. I'm sorry for all of us, but am thankful for this space to share.

Thank you all so much. I am so sorry for the loss that brought each of you here. Just knowing this community exists has provided me with so much. Thank you.

I lost my dad one month ago. He was 75, and his health had been declining for the past couple years. In the end, he had complete congestive heart failure, renal failure and dementia. Growing up, I remember him as so strong and proud, strict and stubborn. He loved his family, but was complex and had faults. He smoked until his last day, despite two bypass surgeries. He refused to change his diet, despite being diagnosed with diabetes. But he was a good, kind and generous man. He was always there for me. Watching him slip away over the years has been hard, especially on my mother, who was his primary caregiver. His life choices and his final months have left her with an alarming amount of anger. My sisters' relationships with him had been strained too, especially because of unexplained outbursts of anger he'd display (we didn't know until the very end that he had dementia, which may be a partial explination.) During his last hospital stay, my mother and I were called into a room and told that he would need his leg amputated and that his dementia had progressed. Given this news, and the fact that he was in near constant pain, even with pain medication, he decided to stop dialysis and turn off his pacemaker. We were told that he would have two weeks. We were told to go home and get some sleep. He died four hours after I left him, alone. After his death, I feel that many in my family are relieved. I expected to feel relieved, and in some ways I am that he's no longer in pain. But I also miss him. Terribly. It feels like no one else does. I don't want to upset my mother, my sisters or my husband, because every time I start talking about it, they change the topic or simply say, "He's in a better place." Friends, I have found, don't listen, but rather talk about their problems. I even had a coworker say, "Other than that, how was your Christmas...." I have two young children - a six-month-old and a 2.5 year old - and it's easier to just focus on the day-to-day of work and kids and not talk about everything that happened over the last two months. But I am struggling. I'm struggling with the guilt that I left him alone that last night; anger that the doctors were so wrong; concern that all my mom can seem to do is talk about how terrible it was to take care of him; resentment that friends and even my husband haven't been supportive. And I don't have the time or energy to do anything except what needs to be done in that moment. It's brutal. And I feel so alone.

Pugmom, I joined this forum because I read your post. I lost my father on Dec. 27, 2012 after several years of declining heath - like you, we "lost him a little more everyday." In the end, my dad had complete congestive heart and renal failure, and developed dementia. He was in constant pain and would only be "there" and aware at certain times of the day. In his final days, he often said things similar to what your father said to you. It was heartbreaking. I thought I had made peace with his passing, but have found myself missing him so much. I was very close to my dad too, and I feel as if I am also very much grieving the loss of that unconditional love and support. I miss how our family felt "whole" with him, even though he was so sick and couldn't always participate in family events. It seems everyone else life - especially those in my immediate family - have gone on unfazed. I am hurting so much, and feel so alone. Your post really made me feel, for the first time since I lost him, that my feelings were normal. Thank you. (I'm 33 - and even though I should have been - wasn't ready to lose my dad.)