072.

Today seven years ago was the day my family knew my dad wouldn't last much longer. So we gathered all of the presents under the tree and gave them to my dad and the rest of us got one each. My dad hadn't spoken in weeks, nor was he able to move on his own, but after all the presents were opened, he said "nice gifts" and kissed us. My mom came to the conclusion that people have a checklist before they give up the fight. My soccer team had recently won state championships, which he viewed from the sidelines in a wheelchair and he had his last "Christmas" with his family. The following night we were all up until 3am wiping his mouth and cleaning up the sputum coming out of his lungs. Every year I relive these three days. It doesn't get any easier as the years go by. Sure the constant pain in your heart slowly goes away, but once this time of year comes, it blows another hole. I don't want to fall apart like I usually do. This year I want to celebrate his life, rather than mourn his death.