This is my first post on this site. I was up late a few nights ago crying (my usual habit these days), and discovered this site. I hope to gain some perspective on the grieving process from other members, especially those in the "I love my Dad" and "Losing Someone to Cancer" groups--but of course any support is wonderful. :)
I lost my Dad on June 3rd of this year to bile duct (pancreatic duct) cancer. We learned he had it in March, when he went to the hospital looking yellow. We suspected gallstones. Nope--apparently a cancer marker in the blood came back seriously positive, and the medical team proceeded with tests. The lung x-ray showed little dots everywhere, meaning the cancer that started in the bile duct had already metastasized to his lungs. He didn't smoke a day in his life and was the most thoughtful, yet timid, and strong person I've ever met. He was 75 years old. He died 20 days short of his 54th wedding anniversary with my Mom, and a few months shy of his 76th birthday, after 2 1/2 months of hospitalizations and failed chemotherapy.
I am 32 years old, the "surprise" youngest of six, with all of my older siblings alive and well. Mom is 72 and managing in the empty house she shared with Dad for over 50 years. I have one child, a 4-year old, who is named after my Dad. He remembers Grandpa and asks quite out of the blue about Grandpa being in heaven and Grandpa dying. My dad loved this little boy quite a lot. He read books to him, colored with crayons, and fed him a bottle as an infant, something he didn't do much of when the other grandchildren were younger.
We never expected this. All his life, we thought it would be kidney disease or heart disease that would take him. Both were in fact quite healthy in the end.
Why do I write here? Why did I join? Because I cry at the drop of a hat--just seeing Dad's picture, talking about him, remembering. The worst is thinking of his last days at hospice. Watching my strong father waste away, confused by the pain and the morphine, yelling out to strange people in his room, holding his hand...that will stay with me forever. I still picture his face moments after he passed. Seeing his body there, without "him" present, was surreal.
I do fine during the day (usually), but at night, when I lay my head on my pillow, the memories flood back. Some nights I am fortunate enough to go to the good memories--then I just miss him terribly. I dreamed of him often, especially in the first couple months, and now still do a few times every few weeks. Now the theme is that Dad is present, but it's not him. It's like we all know he's "gone" in the dream, yet there's this angry intruder that passes for him still in our lives. We're all afraid of this intruder, and are waiting for him to leave--but no one wants to upset him. I can't figure it out.
Anyway, that's just a glimpse into my "grief life." I hope to find perhaps a sliver of solace here.