My Dad is dying.  Probably not right away, but he is definitely on the decline.  He had his first heart attack 20 years ago, in his 50's.  He's had at least two since then.  He was diagnosed with prostate cancer a little over a decade ago.  He has been undergoing treatment since then.  They have tried everything except surgery.  His heart is too weak to risk that.  It has metastasized to his lungs.   Until recently he was actually doing more-or-less OK, outwardly at least.  He was active and didn't appear to be sick.  This all changed 4 months ago.  He got a stomach ulcer that required surgery, and then some pretty hard core medication.  He was very slow to recover from the surgery, and months later, he still can't stand for more than a couple of minutes, has lost 50 pounds, and most of all, is now suffering from some dementia.  His doctors have told him that the dementia is likely a side-effect of the meds they gave him for his stomach.  It may be reversible.  May be.

I don't know that his death is immenent.  He is actually getting a little bit better.  His appetite is coming back, and he's gained a couple of pounds.  But he's clearly failing - at least it seems to me.  I'm going to be surprised if he lives another 2 years.   I really don't care any more than I would care about any dying distant relative.

It's easy for me to understand why I don't feel the way I should about my father's condition.  He has been largely absent from my life for the last 30 years.  This absence did not occur as a result of some unfortunate circumstance.  He wasn't hit by a meteor that gave him amnesia.  He wasn't sent to the Persian Gulf on a secret mission.  He just made a choice that his son wasn't important to him.  

A little background:  My parents divorced when I was 22.  My mother threw my father out of the house when she discovered he had a mistress.  He and his mistress were married a couple of years later, and now have been married for longer than the 24 years than my father and mother were.  After an initial period of adjustment, my siblings and I have accepted her and the marriage.  Well, two of my siblings and I have.  I am the oldest of four, two brothers and a sister.   My oldest younger brother was 16 at the time of the divorce.  He took it very hard.  More on that later.

In the time since my parent's divorce, I graduated from college, moved to a city 500 miles away, went to and finished graduate school, got married, had and raised two kids, got hired at a university, got tenure, had my son and daughter graduate from high school, my daughter from college - you know, had a life.  During that time, my father phoned me exactly zero times.  He sometimes remembered my kids birthdays and Christmas, but not usually.  My father's business frequently brought him to the city where I live.  Not once did he let me know (I only found out later) he was in town.  It's not that I never saw him.  My wife's parents also lived near my parents.  Every time we went to visit them, we also visited my parents.  I phoned my father every birthday, visited him whenever I was in the area, phoned him from time to time.  I guess Ithought that if I made the effort, he would eventually come around.  There was reason to hope.  He always seemed happy to see me or to hear from me.  He'd always say the right things - you know, we should get together sometime....etc. etc.  But he never did come around.  This situation caused a lot of friction in my marriage.  My wife was perpetually angry about the neglect of our kids by their grandfather, especially in comparison with her father, who doted on our kids.  But what made her really mad, was the situation with my brother.

As I said, my brother took the divorce particularly hard.  He and my Dad had a falling out.  I don't really know the details because I was away at college.  I just know that my brother basically disowned my Dad, a situation that lasts to this day.  Not long after the divorce, then 17, he go his girlfriend pregnant.  They decided to get married and have the baby, and they did.  They tried, but they were just kids themselves.  Shortly after they had the baby, his girlfriend fled, leaving my brother with the baby.  With help from my Mom, he cared well for the baby very well, while the mother was off sleeping around and drugging out.  After a year, she came back, asking for divorce and custody.  My brother fought it, but in the end, she gained custody of their son.  I'll say right now, she turned out to be a good mother to their son, who is now grown and on his own, a charming and succesful young man.  The weird part was the reaction of my father.

My father and his new wife basically adopted my brother's ex-wife.  They took her in and cared for her until she got back on her feet.  This was, I guess, part of the reason she gained custody.  My parents divorce settlement left my mother in near-poverty, while my Dad got more than half the marital assets (my Mom's divorce lawyer should have been sued for malpractice - he basically sold her out).  I guess it looked like a better environment for the child.  Maybe it was.  Anyway, this only increased the friction between my brother and my Dad.  He felt that my Dad had taken sides against him with his ex-wife.  He tried to talk to my Dad about it.  My Dad basically told him to F-off.   It also pissed off my wife, who was constantly comparing the attention they lavished on this grandson, with the lack of attention they paid to our kids.

The only time my Dad and I had an open disagreement had to do with my brother.   One evening when we were visiting my Dad, he was all excited about going to get a family portrait taken.  He had made an appointment at one of those places where they photograph you in front of a green-screen, and then superimpose your image over a scene.  My father had chosen a forest scene where we would appear to be in a row boat, with a bear trying to tip the boat over.  My younger brother and sister were also there, so it was a family portrait, except for my older-younger brother.  This was the way it was, so we all accepted it.  They photographed us in pairs - we would be photoshopped into a group later.  My Dad wanted me and my wife to go first.  Just after we had our picture taken, my brother's ex-wife showed up to join the photograph.   I was furious.  I had accepted that my Dad could choose to associate with whom he pleased, but he wasn't going to make me part of it.  I told him to leave us out of the photograph, and we excused ourselves and left.   Months later, I received an envelope from my Dad with the picture in it.  We had not been removed.  I think it might be the only mail I've ever gotten from him.  I tore it up and threw it away.  I then phoned my brother to tell him that it had been done without my permission.  I didn't want him to think I'd done this behind his back.  This whole incident didn't change my Dads behavior at all.  It didn't get worse, it didn't get better.  Our only contact was when I initiated it, but when I did, he seemed happy to see or hear from me.

Early on, my father's lack of interest hurt.  I thought that if I kept up contact, eventually he would come around, but he never did.  Now he's sick.  I didn't call him when I found out.  Through his convelescence, I didn't call.  I didn't call him for Christmas.  I've examined my motives.  Was it revenge?  I don' think so.  The truth is, I long ago tired of caring about him, and getting nothing in return.  I got tired of the hurt it caused.  I built an emotional wall between myself and him.  That's not hard to figure out.  It is a tall, thick and strong wall, built over many years.  There is no tearing it down now.  Yet, when my ill father recently had his 75th birthday, I drove the 500 miles to be there.  As usual, he was happy to see me.  He even cried a little, telling my my visit was the best present he could get.  Maybe he really felt that way, I don't know.  He was pretty weepy about everything, I think as a result of the dementia.  But it doesn't really matter.  No bricks came out of my wall.  I didn't go there for him.  I went for myself.   I wish him no ill.  I hope he lives a long time.   But when he dies, I just want to not have any regrets.  I will have been the good son, whether he appreciates it or not.  I'm not even sure why that matters to me at this point.