Some days I wish I had done more.

My dad died very slowly.

It wasn’t over a weekend, or a week, or a month, or even a year.

He died slowly for 3 and a half years, and then very suddenly after choking on his lunch at a senior center in the god forsaken town of Granbury, Texas.

Wait, no. That’s not right. He was technically resuscitated by the paramedics several minutes after asphyxiation, but he never regained consciousness. We waited two days before taking him off life support. It took his body another 24 hours to shut down after that.

I should back up.

I don’t remember my dad ever being in great health. I guess I didn’t think too much about it when I was very young, but when I got a little older (say, 8–10), I started hearing a phrase; post-polio syndrome, or maybe it was chronic fatigue syndrome. My dad had polio when he was a teenager. It almost killed him. Apparently, it comes back to haunt you 15+ years down the road.

Some survivors of polio suffer from weakness and intense fatigue at various times for the rest of their lives. I’m not a doctor, so I don’t really know. There were months where it seemed like my dad didn’t really get out of bed. I’m not sure if polio was to blame, or the fact that he had 10 rowdy kids to take care of. I certainly was one of the more difficult children. Either way, he would not have been described as a fit or healthy man, although he kept his weight mostly under control.

Things deteriorated in his late 50’s and early 60's. It started with when he was rear-ended coming home from work in the early 2000’s. He complained of neck pain for awhile after, and seemed permanently weaker after that. A few years later, he tripped over a transmission in our driveway, fell backwards and cracked two vertebrae in his neck. He had to have surgery for that.

Then there was the stroke in the late 2000’s. It was mild, but enough to make walking and talking difficult for him.

Then there was the car accident in December 2012. A careless driver pulled in front of my parents while they were on their way to a diner for an after-church lunch.

I got a text from my sister on a rainy, cold winter day. As soon as I found out, I headed to the hospital and found the emergency room. I was the first of my family to go in. Both of my parents were laying on separate beds, and there was blood. The first thing I noticed was my mom’s right foot; it was pointed to the right and down, but her leg wasn’t turned with it.

She was in intense pain, her ankle destroyed, not responding. I told her it was going to be ok, then looked at my dad. He was in incredible pain too, but he looked back at me. His eyes were a mix of worry, fear and pain, but for a moment I could see his mind, sharp as ever, before he closed his eyes and started shaking.

We nearly lost him in the days after that accident. My mom recovered fairly quickly after surgery to repair her ankle (which was shattered, she now has a plate in it), but my dad did not recover for several months. Most of his ribs were either broken or cracked, and his spleen was removed. He had a breathing tube for weeks or months, I can’t remember. He contracted pneumonia while in long term care and almost died again.

6 months later, he was finally released. I saw him as often as I could while he was in the hospital, but the VA hospital in Dallas where he stayed for the first few months was a 60 mile drive from my house, and I was working 50 hours a week and playing in a band. I wish I had gone to see him more, but then again, he slept most of the time anyways.

He never walked again. Maybe it was the damage done by the wreck, maybe it was the months spent lying in bed, but his core and legs weren’t strong enough to keep his body upright ever again, despite weeks and months of physical therapy.

He never really recovered from that wreck, and that’s what I meant when I said he died slowly for 3 and a half years.

My mom took care of him as best she could. My family helped. A motorized chair was provided. A special minivan that could accommodate the chair was purchased. He had to be fed smoothies through a feeding tube in his stomach for a long time, although he was eventually strong enough to eat regular food like a normal person.

But he still died slowly over 3 and a half years.

I watched it happen but I couldn’t do anything about it. I would go and sit in his room at my parents house and keep him company and watch over him so my mom could run errands. I would edit podcasts and tell him what was going on in the tech world. I bought him an iPad Air, which he used for awhile for Facebook and solitaire, but eventually stopped using. My best guess is that Facebook became too frustrating as he was barely able to read and tap the screen. Typing wasn’t happening.

We all knew he wasn’t getting better. He knew it too. He tried to stay positive, but eventually fell into depression, lashing out at my mom over the most minor things. He lost hope, but still hung on.

The reason I’m telling you all of this is because I still feel guilty, 8 months later. I still feel guilty for not spending more time with him. I knew in the year and months leading up to his death (Friday, November 28th, 2015) that he didn’t have long to live, but I was 29 and then 30, in perfect health, and life went on.

But the guilt still visits me late at night. You should have done more. You should have visited more often. You should have sent him voicemails. You should have read books to him out loud. You should have been there.

The worst part is that I know the voice is right. I try not to beat myself up about it too much, but my dad is gone. I will never get to spend another second with him. I take comfort in knowing that I did make an effort to spend time with him, but I also know that I could have spent more time with him, and that’s what keeps me awake at night.

This story doesn’t have a happy ending. The guilt will revisit me from time to time in the way that bad memories do, things that have receded into the back of your mind but that can never be completely banished.

The only thing I want to say to you is this: Spend time with the people you care about because they won’t always be there. Spend time with your parents because they won’t always be there.

Sorry if this bums you out, but I feel better now that I’ve written it. Maybe I can get some sleep now.