It’s been five years since I sat next to my dad’s hospital bed, the one that was in a weird dark corner in the ICU, and held his hand as he told me and my mom about the decision he’d made. I remember his skin – papery, delicate. He bruised easily, like a peach. He also bled easily. The slightest scratch from our unwitting dog would have us reaching for some gauze to stanch the inevitable flow from his arm or back of his hand. He was tired. Not of living necessarily, but of living through the disease, through the accommodations that were needed, through the mental tolls that it took on him and those around him.
That day, five years ago, set so many things in motion that I wasn’t aware of yet. Today, I’ll read this poem a few times, and I’ll read the rest of the poems I wrote as part of the “hospice bubble,” a difficult yet beautiful two weeks of my life where I, along with my mom and sister, had the heart wrenching gift of helping my dad transition out of this life.
Meeting Grace: The Blog 
This is so beautiful, so real. Thank you
I remember that call. I was at the volunteer reception and told Marty I was going to talk to you and Mom. I felt numb when you told me, both with pain and, with relief. The relief was not for me, but for Dad to be able to make that decision and be at peace with it. God, he was so strong and brave.
I can only say WOW! Really tough.
Sent: Wednesday, December 21, 2022 at 12:43 PM
Reliving those moments has left me intears, some tears that maybe didn’t fall til now.