Today

My dad and me in 1971. I'm the little one. I think he looks almost exactly like my brother in this picture. We put him into a hospice yesterday where they will care for him until he dies naturally. Until then, he remains drugged on methadone and morphine and an anti-psychotic for when he wakes up and says, "Get me out of here." He talked to me mostly all of Sunday and Monday, asking me to get him up, asking me why we couldn't leave the hospital. Every time I've tried to tell him he can let go and we'll be okay, he gets angry.

I don't understand why it's okay for me to euthanize my dog when she's miserable, but when my father is miserable and frightened and has nothing to look forward to but lying in a bed being unable to move anything but his right hand, I can't do anything for him but drug him. There's something really fucked up about that.

I love you, Dad. I wish I could stop all of this.