Sunday morning.

It's such a strange reality to go to the store to grab eggs and coffee and have the daunting thought that the woman behind you buying Sunday's paper will soon be open up to the obituaries and see your fathers picture. I woke up at 5 this morning, like I have pretty much every day since my dad entered hospice, (and when I say entered hospice, I don't mean the hospice house, I mean when he was entered into the program in September), and just couldn't shake the anxiety. I watched a stupid mindless chick flick, got way too invested in the characters and was just about to do laundry when I heard the paper hit the front steps. "Oh ya..." I thought to myself, "today is that day."

You just start to move slower. At least I have. Quieter. Looking for the next thing and waiting far too impatiently for the rest of this earthly purpose to run me over. I guess now I go to school and move on with my life? Right? That's what people are supposed to do? That's what people keep encouraging me to do... it just doesn't seem so simple. It seems so small and insignificant compared to the last year of my life. To go sit in a classroom full of people my age with newly found independence from a stifling suburban life style, looking to become a world changer and keepin the revolution alive for peace and justice for all. It sounds annoying. It sounds like real life is going to intrude and rock their idealistic revolutionary soul. And for the rest of us that have been rocked... what? Now we roll?

Maybe cancer can bring out the existential cynic in us? Or maybe it just meant something? Maybe I got kinda attached and for the first time felt like I was doing something that wasn't hurting someone else. Like I was finally doing something right. Something real and so full of truth. Something that wasn't only beneficial to him... but something that changed me. And the way I look at life, and the way I think about family. And how you just realize that the small things are special.

Maybe I was the one being cared for.