Yesterday I received the phone call. The call that, in the back of my mind, I knew would be coming eventually but that I never really believed would happen until it happened.

My father is dying.

He has less than 3 days left to live.

My father suffered a stroke on Thursday. He was already in the final stages of Alzheimer's Disease so this was not unexpected. But the stroke has just quickened nature's course.  He can't swallow. He can't eat. He can't drink. Not even water.  He is slowly dying of starvation and dehydration.

It hasn't really hit me. I'm not really sad. Perhaps that's because, to me, my father died four years ago. That's how long it's been since he's recognized me. 

My mind is a jumble of emotions. Not all nice. 

Tomorrow morning I'm flying home to Washington. My first time back in the United States in nine months. I'm not looking forward to the task of burying my father. But there is a bright side.

After 10 years of suffering, my father will finally be at peace.  As will all those who have cared for him, mainly my mother and sisters.  I don't know how they survived and kept their sanity all these years.  They are some of the bravest people I know.