The year of wandering aimlessly. I've been walking through a fog for the last year. I shut off the alarm, stagger to the shower, eat breakfast, go to work, pretend, breathe, fake a smile, breathe, attempt a joke, go home, eat dinner and go to sleep. Next day, same script, different wardrobe. I don't think I've fully worked through the pain and grief.

About 6 weeks before my Dad died, he was fragile physically, but still sharp mentally, asking for a beer or whiskey--whatever I had available--he joked that either would do. He still had that familiar gleam in his eye. He had to settle for a ginger beer that I had sitting in the fridge. Dropping in from out of town with my brother to visit yet another doctor at yet another clinic, we sat for an hour, chatted and held hands. I wish I had that day back--I would have hugged him harder, squeezed his hand more thoroughly.

Two weeks before my dad died, I tried to speak with him on the phone, in a futile attempt to convince him to take his medicine.

Silence. I feel my heart drop.

"Dad?" "Dad? Hi--how are you?" "Dad, I really need you take your medicine---it's the only way to get better" "Please, Dad, for me?" "I love you, I'm praying for you, you will fight this hideous disease—please stay positive”.

And so the conversation went, save for a few quiet "yeahs" from his end, a few indiscernible mutterings, it was all me, begging and pleading—with him, with God, with anyone who would listen. This man I was talking to was not my father. My Dad loved to watch Jeopardy, and theorize about "Lost", forever asking me my opinions on 'the hatch'. We would chat about books, current events and the latest reality show. Now, I am talking to a shell. I tell him I love him, that I want him to get better. His response is less than enthusiastic. This is not the bright, vibrant and talkative man that I knew. Yes, things had gotten much worse. I would find out later, that these ‘episodes’ had become more and more commonplace, but my mom, perhaps to save us the pain, or her the pain of his reality, understated his condition—she never wants us to worry.

I hang up, and collapse into a crying mess. Jagged weeping that makes it difficult to breathe. I feel a crack in my heart. I know the end is near.

One week before my Dad dies, I go up to visit him. He is in the process of dying--I know this now. At the time it seemed like he was going through dementia. He is seeing things that we cannot see, hearing things we cannot hear and insisting he wants to go home. He does not know he is in his own home. Where is home for him, I wonder—where has he gone? He does eat the Rum Raisin ice cream I bring him, his favorite, giving us all a brief moment of hope. He's eating--a small triumph! But, the next moment he is angry, confused, trying to yank out and tear at the tubes running to his oxygen tank. I want to run away and not see him like this. Even more troubling is my dear sister, painfully grasping at straws, and insisting that if he just got outside and spent some time in the sun, it would make him feel better—couldn’t we just take him for a drive? I don’t have the courage to tell her what I feel in my heart--it is almost over. After the four shortest days of my life, I have to say goodbye, I could only get a few days away from work. Somewhere deep, I know it is the last time. But I hold his face between my hands, search his eyes for recognition, and give him a kiss. I tell him I love him, that he is the best Dad ever, and promise that I'll be back in two weeks to see him again. This will be the last time I see him alive.

Two nights before my Dad dies, I talk to him on the phone. He does not talk back, but I hope he hears me. He is bedridden now, under the care of a few earthbound angels--my mother, brothers, sister-in-law and some kind hospice nurses. I tell him that I love him,and if he has to go away, I understand. I will miss him, but I will never forget him.

I tell him that I was so lucky to have him as a Dad, and if given the choice of any Dad anywhere--he would be my only choice. I tell him that I want to get a tattoo in his honor. My sister-in-law tells me that it looks like he is motioning "NO!" to the tattoo idea. Even if it's not true, the idea of it gives me one last glimpse of my Dad. I don't want to hang up. I have to hang up. I tell him goodbye through tears, barely choking out the words.

I feel my heart break. Physical pain wrought from emotional pain--I cannot breathe.

September 12th, 2011--early in the morning, I get the call. Dad is gone. I don't know what to feel. I am tired. I feel broken. Later, Mom says he looked so peaceful, so young. All stress, pain and confusion erased from his face. In the following days, weeks, months, I find myself lost, angry, depressed. I am in a fog. For months, I like to pretend that when I call my mom, that he is puttering around in the garage. The reality is too much to bear. I am angry at people I deem less worthy of life than my father for getting better after their chemo rounds—why do they get a second chance? I try to make room in my heart for the ache, so it doesn't overwhelm me. I can’t go on like this—he would not want me bound by these feelings, this pain.

So, I go through the motions.I shut off the alarm, stagger to the shower, eat breakfast, go to work, pretend, breathe, fake a smile, breathe, attempt a joke, go home, eat dinner and go to sleep. Rinse, repeat.

It's been one year since he left us. Each day is a little bit better--eventually, I know I’ll be able to laugh again without feeling a fraud. My family has been my saving grace--remembering, laughing, crying--being thankful for the man that was my Dad. He was a funny, kind and special soul who touched many hearts. I miss his dry wit and wry observations. I miss his bad dancing, and his even worse singing. I regret not realizing how short our time is and appreciating every moment I was given with this sweet, silly man. I regret not telling him every single day what he meant to me--I miss him terribly.
Rest in Peace, Richard Hughes 6/21/35-09/12/11~~"May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. May the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again, may the Lord hold you in the palm of His hand".