I can't sit still. I feel like I need to be doing something. Packing a suitcase for a trip that's still three days away. Making arrangements. Cancelling appointments.
If I don't stay busy, I'll probably lose it. I understand why my mom used staying busy as a way to mentally work through problems. It helps--for a while anyway. Until there's nothing left to do but sit down and rest and think about my dad who I'm not sure I'll even recognize when I arrive at the airport on Saturday.
I'm scared he won't know my name, remember I just had his granddaughter, know why I'm there.
But I want to be there. I have to be there. This is my father. Last week, at the hospital, he made a comment about "waiting for his children." Was he lucid when he made the comment? I'm not sure, but I'm going to be there nonetheless.
When I've gone back to look through pictures of my youth, I've found so many photos of me doing long jump or running and in the background, my dad is there--watching. He was always there. Never missed a track meet. He'd drive to O'Fallon or Sparta or wherever. Always made time for it. For us.
I can't believe it was just last year that dad and I were jogging together at the Columbia park. Now, he needs help just walking to the bathroom.
I know this is going to be a challenge. Because I live far away, I've been able to distance myself from the reality of what's happening to him. The deterioration of his body. I'm scared when I see him that I won't recognize him, his frail body that used to run marathons. That could always beat me in a race, even when he was over sixty.
I know I've been through a lot, but I hope I'm strong enough to get through this too.
