I've been sort of poo-poo'ed throughout my illness by both my parents, though my father has been consistently more supportive (my mother calls me names). Now, I have someone else going through what I've been through first-hand. It's different when you almost die and you have over a week in the hospital as the doctors piece you back together. That type of experience does change a person, and does make you immediately assume all other news you receive is going to be just as fatal or near fatal.
He understands me now.
He understands my need to say, "I love you," at the end of every call, because it may be the last time, and he says it first now. He understands how hard I've been working, and he supports my decision to not try and return to full-time work. He's going to support me as long as he can. I'm doing my best to make my own future, and he thinks I have a good idea, and that I should follow my dream. (This from the man who I had to fight to get my education, education that he gave my sister for free... he's always felt guilty about that.)
And he's depressed now. He's struggling. And I get it. It's difficult to have hope for a bright future when the bullet has already left the gun, and it's just a matter of time before it strikes you down. I get that. And I get how painful it is as the disease ravages you, unchecked. He has a harsh future ahead of him, even with all his recovery from the stroke, and that's difficult to know. There is a freedom in knowing what has caused your suffering, if you've been hurting for years and no one can tell you why. It's different when you just think you're growing old, and find out, oh, no... it's far worse than that.
I am doing the best I can to help him, though we have a good laugh at some of my poorer attempts. His eyes have been opened to a grim reality, so I understand that it's not so easy. My heart goes out to him. I know from experience how difficult this road is.
And though I hate that my father is now a part of this club, it's nice to not be so alone...