I swear to God, I didn't. I might've said otherwise before, when I was younger, and even last week, I know I said it would be better if he did, just because we'd all get to rest a bit better. That doesn't mean I actually wanted my father to pass away.

But die he did, just yesterday actually, right after midnight. It seems like so long ago... yesterday took forever to creep by.

So now, the Hollow.

I have no other way to describe what I'm feeling right now. I'm aware of my bodily functions: the intestines growling in hungry protest, the need to urinate, take a crap, the sleep trying to catch up to me... but I'm not really feeling any of those things. I have no appetite. I cannot sleep. My body is weak, but I'm still smiling around the arriving relatives, comforting my father's sisters, meeting with the funeral director, answering sympathy calls, getting the mass arrangements done, excetera, excetera, excetera. Filling out this stupid thing. For future refrence? I don't know. But I think I need to do this. I haven't sat down, really, and sorted out my thoughts on all this. This is the only real private space I have at the time, and I need to vent, even if I don't feel a need to. It doesn't mean I don't need to.

P'fas was released on Wednesday from the hospital. He was in a good mood, positive attitude all around. Wanted to get home so he could start living like a normal human being instead of staying holed up in a bleak hospital room. We got home, made him comfortable, and I took off to work. Mom stayed behind to look after him. Of course, I was late as fuck to work. But I had called in, so all was well.

Wednesday he was fine. Thursday he was great. He ate everything we gave him without complaint, despite his crappy diet. He took all his meds. 'Ama told him we were very proud of him, and we all sat around talking, bonding. He told us he wanted to get better, he wanted to live. Said he had "five powerful reasons" to do so, meaning my mother, his two kids and two grandkids. It was one of those rare moments where he just stopped being an asshole for five minutes in order to share his feelings.

Shit, I should've known something was wrong since then. Because when the fuck has he done that? Making peace with himself? Maybe. A bit too late, but that was his manner, after all. Better late than never, right?

Anyhow, I think that's what's got me all messed up at the moment. That phrase. That expression of yearning for more life...! He really wanted to live. He wanted to fight. He wanted to... get better.

He fell on Friday while 'Ama and I were at work. She stopped by during her dinner break at seven to check up on him as usual and give him his evening dose of meds. She found him on the floor, bleeding. She called me and I wouldn't answer. They don't allow cell phones at the warehouse anymore, so I snuck in mine on vibrate. Seven P.M. is when we have rush hour for the Next Day Air volume, so with all the shouting and machinery whirring... of course I wasn't gonna hear it. Of course she panicked. Of course she cried like a little bitch. She was scared. She couldn't get my father up, he wasn't responding, and there was blood on the floor and on the bed. She ended up calling my sister in El Paso, who in turn called the warehouse. I was told the news, I grabbed my shit and left. Didn't tell anyone exactly what happened, except that it was an emergency, no, I can't call later to tell you guys what's up, no, don't call me either, I probably won't be home. All of this in rapid mutterings while I grabbed my stuff. I didn't look back... it's all a blur to me now, even though this was only the day before yesterday.

Long story short: I get home, we pick up Dad. 'Ama and I decide we need to get him to the hospital ASAP. Don't bother getting him in the car, I said, just call a fuckin' ambulance. He was rushed to the E.R., where I overheard he was in some time of hypo-shock. Some medical term or other. I explained his condition to a male nurse with bright blue eyes... I remember his eyes for some reason. Riley, I think his name was (and what kind of fucked up name is that, anyway?). Then Jesse the Mexican Male Nurse took over. He asked me about my father, saying he remembered him, that he'd tended to him before. I nodded. I remembered Jesse very well. The doctoress (just so we're all clear she was a chic) told me there was no miricle for cases like my father's. I said I was aware of the situation. Then I did that thing that I've been chewing over in my mind since my father kicked the final bucket:

I said I wanted him to be D.N.R.

Somehow, even now, I feel as though I was gently ushered in that direction by the medical staff. Mainly Doctoress and Mr. Riley. They probably knew there was nothing to be done except wait for the inevitable anyway, but it was unnerving to see how they seemed to treat it all as some sort of freak show. "Oh, look here girls, and take notes! This is a patient with liver failure. He'll croak soon."

Yeah, say "no" to alcohol.

D.N.R. For the medically-illiterate, that's an acronym for Do Not Resusitate. In other words, Let Him Die. And that's just what they did. They tried intervention with all his meds, but it seemed to be done in a slow, methodical manner, as though making time for when his heart would slow down significantly, maybe that way they wouldn't have to waste so much time and equipment and money on a terminal patient. And when his heart finally did start slowing down, and his breathing became less frequent, I kept hearing him say it all over and over and over again: "Tengo cinco buenas razones para vivir. Me quiero poner mejor."

The guilt, need I say, is ripping me apart inside.

It's like a tiny monster in my chest, squirming and clawing at me to get out through my ribcage.

At one point, he started crying silently, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. I wiped them away, told him not to cry, not to be afraid, I was there, everything was gonna be alright. And he was dying on me, dying! And his heart kept going down, his beats per minute were in the forties now. His heart would fluctuate down to the thirties, then shoot back up. His heart was struggling to continue, and I could sense it in his rapidy cooling body, that he was trying to do all in his power to just stay alive, he wanted to live so badly, and I took that away from him. I did it. I know I did, and no one can make that go away. I signed those papers, and no matter how I try to justify myself, I know I'll always carry that with me. Mom told me it was better that way, so did the Dud. So did all the fuckin' nurses and the doctors that came in to give their condolences in the end. But they don't know what he had said. They didn't know how badly he wanted to live. I do. I did, I knew... and I didn't take that into consideration. I just told them to let him die. It doesn't mean I wanted him to die. It doesn't mean I thought he would.