![]() I had memories of that time, of course, but I’d become an adult, and any sense of childhood normalcy had been destroyed. The problem was I didn’t remember very well what things were like before my dad got sick. He’d suffered for so long, I longed for the day when he’d be released from his pain and I’d be released from my servitude to his sickness. I’d hoped my dad’s death would bring some kind of closure, that I’d feel a sense of solace and meaning. When my dad died, though, I felt like all that work and suffering had been in vain. The process felt like fixing a falling house, furiously trying to rebuild everything brick by brick while sickness relentlessly tore it down. ![]() School, friendships, and future dreams are all overshadowed by the work of living with illness. Dealing with something like that takes work. ![]() For years I had to make some kind of meaning out of my dad’s illness. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |