by Kelly Dekker

Created on: September 13, 2008   Last Updated: July 20, 2009

I was on the verge of sleep when I saw his spirit leave his body. He was walking out of his room, the one at the nursing home. I smiled at his presence. He looked good,- healthy, like himself, unlike the skin and bones man I saw just hours before. And for a moment I hoped it was true, that he really did leave his body to find eternal rest. It's time. My father does not have a life, he has an existence.

Time passed and I fell asleep. My phone did not ring to confirm what I saw. He was still alive, - barely, and I found myself feeling disappointed.

There are few things more painful than watching a loved one wither away, forced into dependency by their own body's failure. Witnessing a slow death has been changing the very texture of my life. Issues that seemed insurmountable are now petty when placed against the heaviness of watching somebody lose their life one day at a time.

Guilt over having the freedom to walk, eat, or even laugh, has been gnawing away at the pit of my stomach. It's hard to walk out of a room that reeks of death, hit the resume button, and go on as if life is normal. I even question the term normal. What is normal about watching someone slip away further and further with every passing day?

He is a stubborn man, my father, and I'm not sure why he has been hanging on. I think it's safe to say, that in his mind, he has been dying for the past twenty-five years. The process just started to accelerate six months ago.

My father is a diabetic. Most people don't truly understand the ramifications of diabetes. It's not just a matter of watching what you eat. It's a disease that can kill you.

I'm sure diabetes won't be listed on his death certificate, perhaps it will state a blood infection as the cause of death. The bedsores that never had a chance to heal seem to be determining his fate. Sores that won't heal become infected and infections that don't respond to antibiotics can, and do, affect the blood.

My heartbeat quickens with every step I take toward his room. Dread creates a stranglehold around my stomach. I find myself wondering, what will he look like today? Can he breathe on his own? And then I make a wish. Please Dad, let go.

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