Image reprinted with permission by the artist, Sam Zimmerman
“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” – Joan Didion
When I brought my father to my home to die, I decided to keep a journal. I knew it would be a profound event in my life, and that I should document it along the way. That I would get too lost in the process to commit anything to memory, that later, I would need to write about the experience, and I would not be able to trust my memory. And as I sit down now, seven months later, I am glad I did, because while the pain is still fresh, time has dulled the sharp edges. When I made the decision to care for my dad at home, I had absolutely no idea what was in store. No doctor, hospice pamphlet, or acquaintances who have had similar experiences can prepare you for the rollercoaster you are about to board, and the toll it will take on you emotionally, physically. How it will tear holes in the fabric of your relationships with family, the strain it will put on your marriage, how it can cost you your job, unless you are self-employed, and there is nobody to fire you but your customers.
