Missing my phone buddy

     I miss my dad.  Sounds crazy, I know.  But sometimes it really hits me.  He is here, still with us, and fighting so hard.  I know how lucky we are to still have him, and I try to see him almost every day. I do get that each day with him is a gift, and so very very precious.  But I miss the old days.  I would talk to him pretty much every day.  Usually on my way home from work, in the car.  I would call, and he would say his signature, "Helllll-O!" when he picked up the phone. Or if he was pretty sure that it was one of us, he'd say a drawn out, "Yesss?" instead of hello.  And the next thing he would say is,  "I knew it would be you because I just talked to your sister."  He always chuckled and told us that we called at about the same time as the other one.  I usually didn't have anything in particular to talk to him about, just telling him something about work, or the kids, or asking for car advice, or parenting advice. He always had time for me. Many times on Tuesdays we'd talk when he was on his way back from the hay sale. I enjoyed it and I took it for granted. I never felt like I was bugging him. He was always such a talker, and spent alot of time on the phone with people.  Now the weakness of his voice, and the effort that it takes to talk and breathe make talking on the phone just about impossible for him. 
     Shortly after the diagnosis, I had an appointment with the dr that I have gone to for 25 years.  He asked how things have been, and I told him about my father's diagnosis.  He had lost his mother fairly recently and he told me that grief might cause physical pain.  At that point I was still a bit shell shocked.  But he was right.  I feel scattered and distracted at work and at home.  This grief is with me every minute of every day.  Sometimes it just sits and simmers in the background.  Then sometimes it hits so strong and so hard that it almost knocks me over.  It's an actual ache that is never, ever gone.  I know that my sister feels the same way.  And man, this must really be something for Mom. 
    But, I guess we will just keep on, keeping on. That's what Dad is doing.  Each day is a gift. We just have to hug him every day that we can.  And we are thankful that, for now at least, those rapidly weakening arms are still able to hug back. <3  Love you Dad.