This past week has felt more like a month. Shortly after my last update, things went downhill in a hurry.

After learning the cancer had spread to his brain, the oncologist recommended radiation treatment to give him a little more time. Initially, he wasn't willing to undergo radiation, a decision that I supported and, even in hindsight, I think was still probably the right call. However, soon after there was an incident and the paramedics as well as his doctor were pretty confident that he suffered a seizure. After he was released from the ER, his mobility wasn't great. Within a couple of days he needed a walker to get around. Just two or three days after that, the fucking walker wasn't enough. The wheelchair did help a great deal, but by the time we got one for him, he wasn't mobile at all and his quality of life was pretty well gone. Me and mom made a difficult decision and we contacted Hospice services. The call was made and the next day, somebody from Hospice came to do an assessment and they brought over supplies and equipment for home care. At the same time, one of his best friends flew down to visit and see him. My dad was able to recognize and acknowledge his friend, although he was sleeping a lot and wasn't really aware of much. Those last few days were like dealing with someone with Alzheimer's. He was getting memories jumbled up, asking about his parents who had both passed, and kept confusing me for one of my other brothers. We put he friend up here for his stay, as we've hosted him before and knew he was good people.

Some time between 5 and 6 A.M. on Saturday. Mom noticed his breathing was weird. My brother had come in from out of town the previous day. One of my brothers lives about an hour away, a bit of a drive but nothing too horrible, but the other lives over three hours drive time away, so he hadn't seen our dad as much. My cousin, a RN, also came over the night me and mom decided to call Hospice and leveled with us, saying that we were coming up on the end of it pretty soon. I sincerely did appreciate that because the oncologist was confident and insistent that a few radiation treatments "should" clear up some of his problems. Realistically, we were told that at best we'd get a brief period of more normal awareness and function from him, but it wouldn't last long and we'd be right back where we were at that point. I had to help my mom with the decision to seek help and get ready for end-of-life stuff because, bless her heart, she was trying to take care of EVERYTHING. But when we took a moment to discuss the situation, we helped remind each other that as recently as his now-terminal prognosis when he was informed that the cancer had spread to his brain, he made his wishes known and he knew that we would need help and he would be difficult to care for.

I was woken up a little bit past 6 or 7 in the morning, I can't remember when exactly, by my brother I heard his voice shaking as he said "I'm sorry to wake you up so early, but it's important..." I knew right away he was going to say Dad had gotten a lot worse. I was informed that they found he'd stopped breathing and that there was some blood dripping from his mouth. My cousin was called and she sped to our house from about an hour or so away, assured us that we did everything that needed to be done and that dad was gone. As I try to recall the rest of the day, it's been mostly reduced to a blur. People from the hospice center came over and other necessary people came to take my dad's body to the funeral home. I remember seeing my dad before they came to get him and I could tell he had passed. His skin looked gray and his eyes were partially opened. I was glad that the rest of the family didn't arrive in time to see him like that.

When it dawned on me that dad would be dead soon, I thought about my cat Shadow, and my parents dog who they had to take in to be put down just in January. Shadow started suffering seizures late in 2022. The local vet was very helpful and honest about the prognosis, and we quickly eliminated the possibility that it was anything treatable. His seizures gradually got more frequent, but after the seizure and a few minutes of disorientation, I'd be damned if he didn't go right back to one of his favorite activities; attacking my feet. When he stopped doing that just a week or two after the prognosis, I knew it was getting bad. I was shocked at how quickly he went downhill, but the decision I made to take him in to the vet wasn't a difficult one, it was actually a pretty easy one. Even when he hadn't been seizing at the end, he was confused, disoriented, and scared. I'm not sure that he was even able to recognize me, and I didn't think it was right to make him go through that even though my parents suggested I wait a day or two to see if it improved.

My parents' dog, Apollo, was a lot more difficult. He was a mixed-breed who looked like he was mostly a Boxer. Unfortunately, he inherited a genetic issue known to plague that particular breed, and we found out that his brother had to be put down because of the same issue that had apparently progressed quickly in him. Apollo lasted a surprisingly long while, with his hind legs gradually losing more and more mobility. At first, he would have brief periods where walking was more difficult, but doable. By the time my parents knew they had to take him in, he had completely lost the use of his legs and it was impacting his ability to make it outside to do his business. My mom was really struggling with the decision and it really hit me after losing dad because I had to talk with her about Apollo in a similar way I did with her about dad later on. I reminded her that dad was sick, my grandpa (who was now living with them) was not able to do any kind of strenuous physical activity, and she wasn't able to take care of the dog like he needed by herself and that's exactly what she'd have to do because I couldn't take off of work to help her. She said she understood, but she felt like she wasn't doing what the dog needed but rather was just making it easier on herself because it was quickly reaching a point where he had to be carried around. I told my mom that the problems with paralysis like that went beyond the dog's ability to walk and ran down some of the issues I was aware of that paraplegic people had to be careful with, including being unable to feel injuries in the afflicted areas, that Apollo could get a cut or some other kind of normally minor injury that would get infected and we'd just lose him that way anyways, and I pointed out his increasing difficulty in being able to control when he peed and pooped, and other fun things like that.

In hindsight, I feel like maybe that was the "practice run" for the incredibly difficult decisions we had to make. I want to leave off with this unfortunate and morbid bit of advice: make your wishes known to your loved ones and family with regards to what kind of treatment/assistance and whatever else you want known, while you're still cognizant. It will help them when it comes time to make some very difficult decisions, and even though my dad was very confused and not completely aware of everything at the end, it did really help me and my mom when we discussed what he told us and how he wanted us to handle him.