A daughter's devotion is helping your cancer-stricken father sit on the commode because he can no longer walk and then wiping his ass clean.
Getting Mom to understand that Dad doesn't need certain meds or his vitamins because doctors are not working to make him strong, but to keep him comfortable is the hardest mother-daughter conversation I've ever had to have.
Dad asked me, "Did I do a good job raising you?" I said, "What do you think?"
Dad is weak. He eats only when Mom shoves food into his mouth. Doped up on pain meds (morphine, fentanyl, percocet) around the clock, he sings. He dreams. He shouts, "I'm dying."
Dad is strong.
