Oh, I so so know what you are going through - your feelings, your hurt, your pain, your complete and utter devastation and bewilderment....I too went through this when my Dad was terminal. I could quite honestly not forsee myself surving my Dads death...I truly thought the heartbreak would kill me! I was suffering in torment so much during his final weeks, that I , like you, thought there was no way I was going to survive his eventual death.
But guess what....,. you do. and you do with an unbelievable strengh - god knows where it comes from but you get it from somewhere. My Dad was my rock. My soulmate. My banker. My mechanic. My carer when I was ill. My bodyguard, My taxi, My comedian, My financial advisor....he was everything to me. I am an only child, and the family chain of myself, my mum and dad was unbreakable. We were the closest family. He was the most loving, caring, wonderful, witty, funny, generous, intelligent man I knew. Yes, I had himn on a pedistal. So traumatised was I during his final year, that I could hardly talk to him about his cancer, and I went slightly off the rails....but when he was finally diagnosed with 8 weeks to live, I spent every last minute of those eight weeks nursing him, sleeping next to his bed, caring for him...doing whatever was necessary. I was 33 at the time, with no children, a very loving husband and a loving Mother.
There is only one good thing about cancer, and that is, it allows you to say all the things you may never have otherwise said. When my Dad was dying, he wrote me a letter, which was not to be opened until he had passed. I opened it an hour after his passing. I carry that letter in my purse everywhere. It was the best thing he could have left me. I put my heart and soul into organising his funeral, writing his obituary, and his ashes are now in his favourite spot within my garden, under a camelia tree, where we light candles and have little nick nacks placed there for Grandad, by the two beautiful grand daughters he never ever saw. I sit and have a tot of whisky with him on his birthday, his anniversary, and christmas. The children talk to Grandad there. Are you getting what I am saying......you do carry on. You do get by. You dont collapse and give up on life. Gradually time heals the pain, the hurt memories return of wonderul happier times. My house is full of photos of my parents, he is everywhere - not a day goes by when I dont speak to him, think of him and remember him. I was blessed with a fantastic and wonderful Father, who I was proud to bits of. He died aged 71, and I feel in some ways, blessed that I never had to watch him die of an age related illness, like alzheimers or dementia, or see him become dependant on people to live. Please believe me, as absolutely awful as it seems now, please try and spend your final time together with as much quality as you can, and say all the things you want to say that you may never have said before.
God bless you, I know what you are going through., I can only stress to you that the worst is almost over - and when it is your Dad will be in a far better place and free from worry and pain.
P.s.,When my Dad died, he was jaundiced, he had a tumour the size of a rugby ball on his liver, had lost so much weight and due to the cancer going to his brain, his right eye had glazed over. I had a dream three weeks after my Dad died. In it, he was stood in front of me in a shirt and cardigan that reminded me of him. His cheeks were rosy and plump, his eyes were bright and he was smiling. His stomach was flat. In the dream he just stood smiling at me, and saying over and over again "I'm 71, Ive had a good life and I am happy now. I am happy now. " He just kept repeating this. I woke from that dream and truly felt my Dad had seen my suffering and had come to put my mind at rest. Outside that day it was so hot and there was a clear blue sky with a warm breeze. I got out of bed and went outside with the first feeling of happiness since his death. I have never ever forgotten that dream, in June 1999. It eventually took over all memories of my Dad in his final weeks, and whenever I remember him now, I remember him as he looked in that dream.