Life was just too hectic. Too involved. I was living while preparing for death. February 25th my father in law, who I love dearly, was diagnosed with stage 2 chondrosarcoma. A week later they discovered a secondary marrow cancer and 4 spots on his lungs. We've been trying to grasp as much time with him as possible since then. No one would give us a time frame as to how long he had left, leaving my mother in law without the help of Hospice. Finally when pushed, we had a week left from the moment they finally set up Hospice services until that final goodbye. I was heavily involved in his care at the end. I've teetered between wanting to overdose him to end his suffering to feeling guilty as though I killed him simply because I did give him a few of his scheduled morphine doses (no overdose, I would never forgive myself). I grapple with saying goodbye, and yet I know his suffering is over. And yes, he suffered. Horrifically so. We are now beginning the year of firsts without him. The night before the funeral we got home around midnight. I began to write when we put the kids to bed and continued to write until I took my daughter into the ER (she became really sick and I feared appendicitis, but it's a nasty tummy bug instead). I returned home and continued writing. I could not sleep until I had it all down. No proof reading. No editing. Just getting it out. His last two months and really his last week. 14 pages later, I have probably failed miserably at summizing the man that loved me like a daughter. But his last story has been told and is there if I ever feel confident enough to share it. Here's to living. He would have wanted us to live, and to thrive. Rest dear man. You will be missed, but not forgotten.