Even now my dad looks so handsome to me. It makes sense as I see him lying in bed clean-shaven, eyes closed with his comfy black shirt on why some members of the family came to call him the Mexican Pierce Brosnan (Jack Nicholson in his younger days)—a nickname he would greet with a coy affiliative smile, but one I’m sure made him feel pretty damn cool. He’s completely bedridden now. The massive tumor compressing his spine spanning five vertebrae made sure of that—a final departing blow delivered before being ripped out. And while his frame has withered significantly, his hands—listless and balmy as they are now—seem as huge as ever, full of a concealed vigor and strength that could hammer a stubborn brake rotor off its wheel studs at any moment. “You have piano player hands,” my dad would tell me (he’d say the same to my sister). “But they’re big and strong too, I can tell.” Though I often hold his hand in hopes of transmitting some sort of comfort his girthy mitt still somehow seems to be holding and protecting mine.

Diffuse Large B-Cell Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma—that, we would come to learn, was the name of the demon that took residence inside my father’s body when the diagnosis was made official in April of 2020. It’s news no one ever wants to hear, but for obvious reasons the timing could not have been worse. And after six grueling rounds of week-long PICC line-delivered chemotherapy treatment, cytarabine lumbar injections, an additional round of chemo, targeted radiation, and a very invasive spinal surgery to remove a rogue metastatic tumor all during a time of overrun medical facilities with highly restrictive no-visitors-allowed policies, in-home hospice is where his journey has led him.

For those unfortunate enough to have personal experience guiding a loved one through hospice this will come as no surprise, but for those who haven’t gone through the ride I’ll just say this up front: this die-at-home stuff is absolute misery manifested.

Of course, each family’s home hospice experience will depend on several factors (e.g. type of illness, presence of comorbidities, mobility limitations, people available to help out, etc.), but all roads will invariably lead to the same destination.

Dying at home is quite an appealing concept. To pass away in your bedroom surrounded by loved ones while a team of medical staff and palliative care professionals provide daily in-person checkups, medications, and the equipment you’ll need to expire with “dignity” sounds wonderful, right? In reality it’s a front-row seat to your family member’s painful and tragic decline. It’s a journey down an abyss of physical agony and powerful opioid-induced confusion that, whether you’re religious or not, leaves you wishing for some sort of divine power to grant an act of mercy.

Experiencing this devolution firsthand I really cannot blame anyone for placing their loved one in an inpatient hospice facility. But that was never going to be an option for us. Despite our best efforts we never did manage to find a caregiver to help lighten the load during the early days and it made no sense to continue searching after a while. There are a whole lotta tasks family caregivers find themselves providing that don’t exactly fit within those 30-45 minutes that the hospice nurse is on location so it would’ve been really nice to have had an extra pair of hands. There very likely will be irreparable yet to fully be determined battle scars left on all of us, but as my father nears his final days I’m glad now that it was my siblings, mother and I that cared for him. At times of alertness he’d thank us for everything we were doing. Even now through the thick veil of his suffering this appreciation is clear.

One thought this experience has brought to the forefront of my mind and embedded itself deep within me is the obvious fact that we’re all going to die someday. And unless you’re lucky this is what death looks like. I simply do not have the emotional bandwidth at the moment to process that my mother too is mortal. So, she’ll just have to live a hundred more years and in turn I’ll make sure to hug her tighter, kiss her more often and tell her I love her every single day.

By the way, my father is the biggest advocate for Moms I have ever known. He cherished my grandmother and he would often say: “Nadie en este mundo te va querer como tu mama. Ella te trajo a este mundo. Cuidala. Apreciala. Porque como la madre, solo hay una.” Rough translation to make sense in English: “No one in this world is going to love you like your mother does. She brought you into this world so take care of her and appreciate her because in this life there’s nothing that can compare to a mother’s love.” You’re absolutely right, dad. And it takes one hell of a man to know it.

Note: This was written on Monday, March 1, 2021 as I sat by my father’s bedside. I planned to go on, but shortly after finishing the last sentence with one hand—the other was always holding my dad’s—my father began to draw his last breaths. I called out to my mother and she rushed into the room. We both held on to him as he gently passed away at about 12:34pm.

The last 36 hours have been beyond draining and emotional so I’ll have to save my eulogy for a later time. Maybe a different forum. Perhaps my journal. But I love you dad. You were the best father a son could ever have and if I’m a good man today it’s because you taught me how to be one. I needed you here for a few more decades. I wanted to hear more stories about what your life was like when you were young. I wanted you to be around for so many important milestones that were further down the road. We were so fortunate to have you, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Perhaps the one who said it best was my 9-year-old niece: “I love grandpa, he can’t be gone. I didn’t just want him to be here when I was little. I needed him to be here when I was big too.” I know, baby. We all did. I miss you dearly and the pain right now is just a bit too much to bear so I’ll have to leave it at that. It’s just past 12:30am now so I’m going to bed, pop. I’ll be seeing you in my dreams. Please visit me often.