Tonight my mom and I sobbed. We have sobbed very few moments since my dad’s diagnosis, but tonight was worth crying over. My dad is rapidly reaching a point where he can no longer talk. The simplest sentences are so much effort for him.
He actually had a really go hour today. He talked about wanting to make sure my car was fixed, and said he wanted to pay for it. (My car is in the shop right now.) He talked about how the world needed a Dr. Bobby to be a doctor as well as a Rob Jones (my brother) to be a pilot and a Darin Aldridge (a dear friend and mandolin player) to be a musician. He talked about golfers that he thought were going to make it to the PGA tour in the next few years, and he talked about some of the difficulties of being a doctor over the years. He was able to see the final proofs of his second book, Acquisition Syndrome, which will likely be pressed a few days after he passes.
He also talked about other things. Things mom and I are barely prepared to deal with. He looked at my mother and told her, “If I don’t make it, I want you to know you’ve been a wonderful wife.” Then he asked for me and said, “I love you honey.” Or perhaps, he said, “I love you Bonnie.” I guess I’ll never exactly know. But, he told me he wanted to remind me that he loves me. I know that so deeply that he never would have to tell me again, but I want to hear it as many times as I can in the next few days.
What if tomorrow he can no longer talk? I know that day is very near. I know other harder days are near too. What if today was the last time I get to hear my daddy tell me he loves me? Oh dear God, I am not ready for this. This is not fair. I know I’ll survive. I know I can go on. But, God I hurt so badly.