Then, my dad’s health started to decline.
At first, it was small things, tiny fractures in the rhythm of daily life. He’d forget appointments, lose words, as if whole pieces of himself were slipping between the cracks. But soon, the pattern sharpened into something undeniable: he was dying.
She was pushing 70 and had health problems of her own. So I took over when I moved in permanently, along with Jasper.
I rented out the house we’d lived in, shutting the door on one life so I could step fully into another.
Every pill, every midnight trip to the ER, doctor’s visits, bills, cooking, and cleaning—I was there.
I even had sleepless nights spent crouched beside my dad’s bed, checking if he was still breathing. The house became like a hospice.
I watched him fade from his long and debilitating illness, piece by piece, like watching a painting wash away in the rain.
I won’t lie, bearing the brunt of the caretaking was exhausting, terrifying, and isolating. But I wouldn’t trade it.
Dad and I grew incredibly close during those months.
But even in those final months, he was kind. He would grab my hand with what little strength he had and whisper, “Liza, you’re my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
