The years before my dad's death were painful ones. Those years were full of stress filled days and nights. My parents had moved to the state where my husband and I were living at the time, in order to be closer to us in case they needed help. It had been evident for a couple of years that my dad was having some physical and mental problems, and since I am an only child, the only choice was for them to move nearer to me.

I knew the move would be difficult, but none of us dreamed that the course for the next couple of years would be set within ten days of my parents moving into their new apartment. My dad fell and broke his hip, and that set the course for a series of extremely difficult experiences that lasted a little over two years.

During that two year time span, my dad was in and out of the hospital frequently, both for illnesses and broken bones, and by the time he entered the hospital for the last time, I was exhausted, and didn't feel as if I could go on unless things got much better. I pulled up to the hospital every morning, always thinking that my dad either had to get better and stay well for a long time, or it was time for him to go home to be with God. I didn't want my dad to die, but I simply couldn't endure much more, and I think that somewhere down deep, I just knew it was time to let him go, even though it would break my heart. My dad passed away about a week after he entered the hospital, and I experienced grief, mingled with relief.

My dad had been a nursing home resident for about a year and a half before his death and during that difficult time, I did all I could do to make sure he was properly cared for in his weakened condition. Even though the nurses would tell me to go home and not come to see him every day, I went to visit my dad every day. And I sometimes found humor in place that could be so sad at times. In the midst of minds and bodies that no longer worked properly, there could be laughter and joy once in a while.

Every time my dad was in the hospital, I went to see him every day; talked to the social worker; talked to the doctors, nurses, and therapists; and made sure that I gave them much needed information about my dad's condition and I also made sure that I learned about the current medical condition and what steps needed to be taken for my dad to heal.

When my dad died, we held the memorial service in the small dining room of the nursing home. It was a simple, sweet service, and I was touched by

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