I’m sitting here, waiting. My bags are mostly packed and I am not looking forward to this drive, this trip, this anything. I don’t want to go. But then that would make me a horrible daughter, wouldn’t it?
My father is in the end stage of liver failure. He’s dying. I love him, but I don’t know if I can take it. I know I promised I’d be there. That I would help him through this, but I don’t think I can.
Packing was a tedious process. What do I take? Hell if I know because I don’t even know how long I’m going to be there. Best case scenario, once I get there we’ll get the call that they have a liver, he’ll be transplanted and I’ll be back in 6 to 8 weeks. Worst case scenario, besides him dying, this drags on for months. I would say a year, but the doctors didn’t give him that long a few months ago. My life is on hold. Pause button pressed.
I feel the need to say this. My father is not a drunk. He didn’t drink his liver to death. He has a rare genetic disorder, Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency. Bad genes from his parents.
So here I am, dreading tomorrow.
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