Personal Narrative: My Father With Brain Cancer
My father was not a kind man. He was quick to anger, strict, and rude. As to not completely malign my father, I will admit we had good times. He played me his obscure music, and broadened my philosophical horizons. His death was not a quick and painless one. My father battled cancer for the amount of time it would take for a person to become a parent, nine months. However, his death was necessary in order for me to construct a new and less idealistic reality. Doctors diagnosed my father with brain cancer on my birthday. They said his tumor was about the size of a plum, like a fetus in the first trimester. Despite all the possible negative effects of removing the tumor, my father was positive he wanted to schedule an operation as soon as possible,
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My father had asked me to poison him, as well as my mother, dog, and myself. I felt anger towards that empty shell posing as my father for months after Thanksgiving. I wanted to ignore the fact that he was rotting away in a pee-soaked bed inside a room with revolting food and buzzing lights. So I did. I ignored his calls for weeks, never returning them. To this day I feel disgusted when I think about how I acted, but it is something I cannot change. When his doctors agreed he would not live another year, they released him from the hospital and moved him to my grandmother’s house. It was hard not to feel sympathy when looking at him. Memories of a strong, stubborn and energetic man telling tales of his wild life during the sixties flooded my mind. It was heartbreaking to see that same man who once carried me, now struggle to blow his own nose. As many difficulties as my father faced, he seemed accepting of his fate. He stopped complaining about the pain, which I know only got worse. In the third trimester, a baby’s brain begins to process sounds. What was left of my father’s brain, though, was slowly deteriorating. Not long after that, as a newborn took their first breath, my father took his last in late July. All of his close relatives stood beside him. His
My father had asked me to poison him, as well as my mother, dog, and myself. I felt anger towards that empty shell posing as my father for months after Thanksgiving. I wanted to ignore the fact that he was rotting away in a pee-soaked bed inside a room with revolting food and buzzing lights. So I did. I ignored his calls for weeks, never returning them. To this day I feel disgusted when I think about how I acted, but it is something I cannot change. When his doctors agreed he would not live another year, they released him from the hospital and moved him to my grandmother’s house. It was hard not to feel sympathy when looking at him. Memories of a strong, stubborn and energetic man telling tales of his wild life during the sixties flooded my mind. It was heartbreaking to see that same man who once carried me, now struggle to blow his own nose. As many difficulties as my father faced, he seemed accepting of his fate. He stopped complaining about the pain, which I know only got worse. In the third trimester, a baby’s brain begins to process sounds. What was left of my father’s brain, though, was slowly deteriorating. Not long after that, as a newborn took their first breath, my father took his last in late July. All of his close relatives stood beside him. His