This post was an unpublished draft from August 2017, titled "Six Months In."

The following (indented text) is what I wrote on August 3, 2017. I never published it, but I think I'll publish it today, a year and ten months after the main event that this post is about.

Today makes it half a year already since my dad died, after just over a year of me being his "caretaker." I don't know who I expect to read this, but I just had to purge it somewhere, and forgive me, this is a SUPER LONG post with MANY thoughts--about death, alcoholism/addiction, abuse, my dad, being a caretaker, grief, and loneliness.

I've never felt more alone and confused than I have in these six months. Six months since I asked him if he was afraid to die, and, to my surprise, he shook his head. Six months since I last really sang and played piano for anybody other than a gig. Six months since I last said, "아빠? Dad?" and he was able to respond by looking over at me one last time with sleepy eyes. Six months of talking out loud to him when I'm alone, hoping my dad can hear me somehow. Seven months since I last heard him speak or saw him walk, as he had gotten intubated and paralyzed from the waist down after he fell into a coma. Seven months since our last big fight over him drinking too much.

This might be morbid, but it's amazing how much we can attach someone's "personhood" to their physical and mental being. With his ashes in my closet now, I wonder if that's still really "my dad" in the box, and I'm met with a sense of existential crisis. When he woke up from his coma at 60-80% of his brainpower, was I to understand that he was only 60-80% my dad? When he died, I was...confused. How can someone just stop existing? It's in despairing thoughts like this that I feel a compulsion to believe--in an afterlife, in a higher being, in souls and spirits, in "meeting again."

I'm gonna get really personal. My dad was a broken man. For most of my life, I had only known him as my abuser, as someone who terrorized my home and used fists where words failed him and broke my heart so many times. He was an angry man, and he was an alcoholic (but as I like to say, aren't most Korean men these days?). His father before him was the same. I see the same kind of anger in myself and my brother as well. My therapist tells me this is something called "repetition compulsion"--we have a compulsion to repeat trauma, either by inflicting it on others or trying to re-live it. I don't want to end up like my dad, pushing people away, being vindictive and holding grudges, depriving myself of intimacy, exploding in my temper to the people closest to me. Unfortunately, I feel like I'm already headed down that path. I felt bitter towards people I invited to my dad's funeral who ended up flaking with no excuse. I felt jilted by friends who never asked how I was doing in the aftermath. I've been mean to those closest to me. But I'm trying very hard not to end up like my dad, with therapy and the support of loved ones, and with an attitude of gratitude. Positive and proactive thinking is truly changing me for the better.

I understand why my dad was that way (and, subsequently, why I am this way as well). He "learned" it, by way of observation, from his father (who most likely just become a very angry person after the Korean War. What is it good for?--Absolutely nothing). I learned from my own father. I know plenty of people who simply aren't capable of the anger that I am, and I envy them. I guess I'm imploring parents to really understand how your behavior can affect your children. I'm not blaming it entirely on my dad, of course. I can and will do better; I control my own actions. It's been since last November that I started seeing a therapist again for my temper issues. My dad's legacy will not be the anger that I learned from him.

Understand that my dad wasn't completely a terrible man. No one is 100% evil nor good. My dad was the one who really got me into music and my interest in crabbing and marine biology. He's the one that taught me to love rainfall. He was my first Valentine, and he tried to raise me the best he could. He used to play stupid little games with me, like letting me step on his shadow and pretending he got hurt. He quit smoking after I asked him to do so for my birthday. He loved playing his guitar and harmonica, and he always encouraged me to sing, and always complimented my artwork. I didn't really get to know him until the last couple months of his life. It takes two to maintain a relationship, and he didn't hold up his end of the bargain for most of my life, so there's nothing for me personally to regret; it is simply a regretful situation.

My dad died, ultimately, from alcohol poisoning. Prior to, his kidneys and liver were failing steadily in his coma, and he had hepatic encephalopathy. He weighed 87 pounds, skin and bones. He was severely undernourished to where he developed pressure sores within a day of being in the hospital bed (google them if you dare). He lost about two quarts of blood. He had esophageal varices--enlarged blood vessels from too much drinking that made it dangerous for him to even cough too hard or yell too loud. I watched him pretty much deteriorate in front of my eyes in the last year of his life. If you have a serious problem now with alcohol, please seek help. You are not invincible, even if you may feel like it in the arrogance of youth. To people on the flipside: you cannot help somebody who is not receptive to it. You can't help somebody who doesn't want it.

I feel like I failed him as a daughter and as a caretaker. He never knew that I sing and play piano as a side gig. He never knew I graduated from Virginia Tech with 3 bachelor's degrees. He never knew any of my boyfriends (until the current one, actually). I feel like I didn't do enough for him. Should I have lived with him longer and just put up with his abuse? In the moment, I felt that I couldn't. And I don't necessarily regret my decision to stop living with him after a short 3 months. I needed to look out for me, too. My friendships were falling by the wayside, as was my happiness. I was gaining a lot of weight, and I became short and impatient with people. I stopped seeing my mom as much, and I had to temporarily give up Hambone (my dog) as well. As Reddit likes to say, I couldn't keep setting myself on fire to keep somebody else warm. It was a tough lesson to learn, because I thought I was being so self-centered and so selfish, especially when my dad asked me to move in again a few months later and I said no. Self-care is not a bad thing. Self-preservation is not a bad thing. It's very good, actually. I need to better care for myself so I can better care for others in my life.

I now burst into tears whenever I hear his ringtone; it reminds me I won't be able to contact him anymore. I panic every time I see or hear an ambulance, because it reminds me of when I intercepted his ambulance at Fair Oaks and saw him carted out, not breathing on his own. I cry at the weddings I perform at where fathers walk their daughters down the aisle, knowing I'll never have my dad do that for me. Every time I go crabbing, I think of him. Every time I am even in Centreville or Annandale, I think of him. Every time I order my favorite Korean dishes--which also happen to be his favorites--I think of him. Whenever I see a bottle of 참이슬 or 처음처럼 (chamisul or chum churum soju), I get sad as I think about the last big fight where we threw fists at each other as I tried to grab his bottle away from him. I now realize that his drinking was really a slow way of killing himself, as he had deprived himself from having anything to live for.

I think, above all, loneliness is one of the most despairing things to experience. I felt so alone in being someone who took care of my own former abuser; I experienced so many conflicting emotions I didn't know how to articulate. He's my parent, yet I was the one wiping his bum and literally helping him use the bathroom, and I changed his sheets and gown for him. I felt so alone almost every day for the past six months when the urge to cry would hit me so randomly--while driving, while teaching a Paint Nite, while showering, while eating dinner with friends, while sitting at my desk. I felt alone as my own sibling didn't come to the funeral (for reasons I disagree with but respect). I felt so alone in my experience of being a caretaker to someone who ended up dying before my eyes, with nobody else beside me when it happened. I beat myself up over it. My job was to make sure he didn't die, and he did. But it was Jessica who reminded me that it's because of me he actually lived as long as he did. It was David who helped me get through the logistics of the insult to injury afterwards of executing my dad's will/estate and doing administrative/legal matters, having lost his own dad a few months before. It was Jasmine who gave me meaningful words of comfort, having lost her own mother two years ago. It was Justin, Ann, Alex, and Stephanie who came to sign off as witnesses on my dad's will and Power of Attorney. It was Jacob who reached out to me about the very real struggles of alcoholism and achieving sobriety. It was Laura who reached out to me to specifically make sure I knew I was, indeed, not alone. It was Tracey who treated me to a spa day. It was Irene who came over that day and gave me flowers, having lost her own dad in high school. It was Jen that had the sense to buy and send me two books on how to deal with the grief and logistics of the passing of a loved one. It was Skyler who took care of Hambone for me while I was at the hospital, who's seen me randomly cry in our living room and comforted me. It was Huy, Jan, Michelle, Daniel, Liz, Razel, Min, Drew, Jessica, Connor, Luc, James, Michael, Chau, Christopher, Gigi, Alex, Stephanie, and Sarah that visited me and dad in the hospital. It was Nikki who linked me to her dad to give me some legal insight on cleaning up dad's estate. It was Scott who took me out to dinner to share his experiences with me of losing his mother. It was Monica that I called during my first panic attack, after sudden flashbacks to my dad's death. It was my mom who came to see her former abuser and ex-husband just to support me, even though she was terrified after 20+ years. It was James who found a pastor to officiate my dad's ceremony. It was Mason who brought me my keyboard from my apartment so I could sing for the first--and last--time for my dad, Mason who has loved me through everything I've been through.

I am not alone, and I'll never have to be, as long as I keep the right people in my life. I will do everything you guys have done for me for pretty much anyone in my life. I will return the compassion you have shown me.

[If you weren't mentioned, don't take that to mean I don't appreciate having you in my life. These are just the people directly involved in the events and days surrounding my dad's passing. I'm also adding names as I remember them lol. I remember absolutely everyone who reached out to me and/or came to the funeral. I am blessed to have the people I have.]

Lessons Learned (practical and emotional) while taking care of my dad. RIP 2.3.2017

After being my dad's caretaker for over a year--living with him for a couple of months, going to his house every day thereafter, medicating him, scheduling his appointments and taking him to them, cooking food to fit his dietary needs, trying to diminish his alcohol intake--there are many lessons, as I'm sure you could imagine, that I learned that I am eager to share with the people I love, and people in general.

• To get the most cliche'ed one out of the way, it really is true--the grief comes in waves. I was pretty numb for the first week. The first morning that I woke up after dad's passing felt a little empty, and I could feel a hole in the world (no other way to put it), but otherwise it was a regular Saturday for the most part. But after the funeral, it really hit me. I wanted to cry yesterday night at my a cappella practice because I realized I didn't have to be in a rush to leave anymore to go to my dad's house. I cried at Giant on Monday when a coupon printed out for Ensure, which I always bought for my dad to try and get his protein and weight in check (he liked the chocolate High Protein variety). I cried today at work when I realized it's only (and already) been nineteen days since I lost my dad, and there's the rest of my life to go knowing that I'll never make new memories with or speak to him again. I'm sure I'll still be crying about random things years from now. The grief and loss never really go away; you just learn to grow around it.

• Note: I am not, in any way, an estate lawyer, and this is not intended to be taken as legal advice. This is just my personal experience. Have a "Last Will & Testament" in place, all signed and notarized. Having a "Self-Proving Affidavit" is also useful; this would mean that the witnesses to the signing of the will do not have to be present when you file the will to be probated (i.e. to be validated and recognized by law/court at probate court, which is usually a division of a jurisdictional circuit court). Unless you're under 18, you're never too young to have a will in place, especially if you have kids. In the will, you should note that the executor(s) has the power to sell real estate, if you own any property and if you don't plan on specifying in the deed who the house should go to (i.e. in my dad's will, it was a generic "divide my assets among my two children in equal parts" statement, but you can't exactly divide a house in half). Also make sure that if you appoint more than one executor that the co-executors can act independently of each other; explicitly state this fact in the will. The independence is never assumed or implied. Due to this, my brother and I must act in unison--that is, both of us must be present at every interaction regarding our dad's estate. Kind of inconvenient! If you intentionally do or do not let co-executors act independently of each other (i.e. the convenience of being able to get things done twice as fast vs. them being able to check each other), make sure that they trust each other; fortunately, my brother and I do, and I can see there being an issue of people trying to go behind each other's backs otherwise. Also make sure you have passwords, PINs, safe combinations, and other such things accessible by someone you trust upon your passing. You may also want to consider putting someone's name on your assets and certain liabilities--bank accounts, insurance, mortgages, titles--to avoid the administrative tasks of transferring things.

• Your attitude makes a world of a difference in the way you experience life, and for me, gratitude is the best attitude. I honestly think I'm doing as well as I am because of this. When my dad went into a coma, I had so many things to be angry and whiny about (in my opinion). Instead, I did something that I remember seeing another friend do on Facebook, with the hopes that my friends, too, would feel inspired: I decided to start listing three things I was thankful for every day, rather than griping about the misfortunes I was facing. So, even though my dad was in a coma, at least we had access to health care that was helping to rehabilitate him, and palliative care to ease his pain. I also live in a time where there are apps to help me communicate with people across the world; I used WeChat to tell my brother to come back, and he did, and he was the one who was able to wake our dad up just by calling for him. While I stayed overnight at the hospital for two weeks, I had blankets to keep me warm in the chilly room. Seeing my dad in his condition made me realize how much I take for granted the fact that I can walk and move freely on my own, that I can breathe with no impediments, that I can scratch that itchy spot on my back on my own, that I can eat and drink on my own with no restrictions apart from allergies. I also realize how fortunate I am to have a job that is so understanding of my circumstances and lets me telework or take off as many days as I need. As I did this type of daily exercise, I realized just how much more stuff there is to be thankful for. From access to clean water (I have enough water that I can let my shower "warm up" before I step in) to being able to watch my dad die a peaceful death (rather than a painful or sudden one), from shoes that protect my feet (no tetanus or abrasions on my feet) to decent weather on the day of my dad's funeral (it could have been raining or snowing or freezing or even windier), it really is a "glass half full" mentality that is getting me through this. Let's get this straight, though: just because someone has it worse does not mean you are not allowed to grieve. That's like saying that because someone has it better than you, you are not allowed to be happy. By all means, grieve; Lord knows I have been.

• Good or bad, rich or poor, royalty or peasantry, smart or stupid, healthy or not, we will all meet the same end. I suppose, then, that it's really about who would want to come to your funeral to say goodbye. What community did you create in your life? Did you forge lasting bonds, or did you push people away? Were you kind and empathetic, or were you egoistic and bellicose? How did you participate in this shared experience of life?

• Along with that, funerals are for the living. I understand that, as a pile of ashes, my dad may not be able to hear me. I understand that if a god does not exist, then nobody will hear or answer my prayers. I understand that my dad's spirit isn't literally clinging to my arm as I walk through the rest of my life without him. But I was there to see the people who came out to support me, to grieve my grieving of him, and I take comfort in the fact that I am, indeed, not alone.

• You can only lead a horse to water. My dad was, for a vast majority of his life, an alcoholic (aren't most Koreans, on some level?). I could keep replacing the soju in his bottles with water, do a sniff test of every liquid in the house, take away his driver's license, take away his car keys, beg and plead with him to stop drinking...but he had a hidden stash somewhere I couldn't ever seem to find. He would call a taxi to get to the ABC store. He would send for an errand runner to buy it for him. He would scream at me until I cried and let go of the bottle I was about to throw away. I could do as much as I could in my own power, over my own agency, to stop him from abusing alcohol--but it was ultimately up to him whether he let the bottle touch his lips or not.
• This is something that took me a while to learn, only because I felt so guilty about learning it. It’s important to take care of yourself, too. As much as my dad needed my help, there were times when I needed to just take time for myself. Just one night here and there not having to go to his house so I can go straight to sleep at night instead of driving 25 miles to his house, one night here and there where I hung out with my friends or boyfriend, one night here and there where I was just at home by myself watching TV with my dog. It was for my own sense of sanity. I truly burnt myself out in the whole “set myself on fire to keep someone else warm” sense, and I was destroying and neglecting myself while I was trying to put his needs before mine. But I am human. I am a person too, and I need care, too. Self-care is important.

• Anger accomplishes nothing. At best, it will coerce or intimidate people into doing what you want them to. But at worst (and as is most common), it will break off once-meaningful relationships, deter people away from you, and really only hurt you in the end. I read in Anger Management for Dummies that anger fuels the "fight" in the "fight-or-flight" instinct we get when we are confronted with a threat. We are not animals of instinct anymore. We are beings of higher sentience. Let's act like it. Sure, use the fervor to fuel you into sharpened decision making or light a fire for some passionate belief. But do not inflict your anger upon other people. This past year has been a rehabilitative effort for me as I work to get my abrasive attitude and anger problems under my own control, and life is so much better (and things get done more easily) when I am not angry.

• It is better to err on the side of compassion and care than neglect. That is, it's better to care too much than not care enough--especially if it ends up making a big difference in a life-or-death situation, or other drastic circumstance. I personally believe that the whole "you will regret what you don't say more than what you do say" thing is really true. That's why--especially as it seemed like dad's death was getting more and more imminent--I started speaking my mind more, despite my fear of retribution (our family has never been affectionate, and me speaking my mind has almost always been met with some sort of punishment). He needed to hear this. He needed to know I forgave him along time ago for his wrongdoings. He needed to know I love him. He needed to know that actions speak louder than words, and words can hit harder than fists. He needed to know that it is never too late, that even if he lives one more day, he can live that day right.

• My dad led an unnecessarily painful life, and I attribute that to him being a broken person; he didn't know how to function as anything more than a shell or a reflection of a "normal" person. But people are not born broken. Something or someone breaks them along the way of life. I mentioned this in my eulogy, and I'm glad I did, because I was able to tell the people in attendance at my father's memorial that if they are to do just one favor for me, it is that they live a life of healing in a world full of broken people. Let's get this straight: being broken does not reflect that something is intrinsically wrong with you. If anything, it is an opportunity to rebuild yourself stronger, like torn muscle. I'm not ashamed to say that I, too, have been broken in many ways throughout my short 26 years of life so far. But so far, I have also survived 100% of the worst days of my life. I have conquered, I have learned, and, most importantly, I have deepened my empathy for people. 

• I was a very, very devout Christian in my teenage years. Then, to be very honest, I took some epistemology and philosophy courses, and I became less Christian and moreso agnostic/theist. I don't believe there is absolutely nothing out there, but I also don't believe as wholeheartedly in the Christian rhetoric anymore, especially with the picture of God that the Bible paints; how is a Perfect God so angry, jealous, temperamental, and steadfastly ignoring of our pain? And I know to the still-devout Christian, I sound like a typical believer-led-astray-by-Satan case, or maybe just someone who isn't "listening when God speaks." But I digress. Before my dad's passing, I was ambivalent at best. Now, I almost feel like I have no choice but to believe. Maybe it's because I so strongly want to believe I'll see my dad again someday. Maybe it's because I want to know that we aren't trying to live righteous lives all for nothing but secular consequences. Maybe it's because I want to feel like I have a "purpose." Maybe I because I refuse to believe that human beings are the end-all, be-all to intelligence and knowledge and the whole universe's order. But my bottom line is this: losing a parent (or anyone close to you, really) shakes up your schema of the world. With such a loss, I think your mind actively works to try and make sense of the tragedy.

---

I would like to thank David T, who lost his own father back in November, for holding my hand through the rocky terrain of logistics and grieving that come with losing a parent. Who knew there was so much crap to take care of once someone passes away?! I would like to thank my brother, who made it back in time from Hong Kong to see our dad one last time so that dad wouldn't have to pass away never having seen his son again. I would like to thank my boyfriend Mason N, who, despite coming from a much more different background than mine, has been a wonderful source of understanding and emotional support. He was able to even bring my keyboard to the hospital so I could play and sing for my dad as he passed (which was, incidentally, both his first and last time that he's ever heard me play piano and sing), and that is a priceless memory I will never forget. I would like to thank Mr. Gam, my dad's friend, who has been an irreplaceable and invaluable source of friendship and reliability for my dad. I would like to thank everyone who has donated to my dad's YouCaring page (and special shout out to Jen Roh for suggesting I create one in the first place). I would like to thank my mother, who was able to transcend her own feelings about my father and come to the funeral to support me. I would like to thank everybody who came to visit me and my dad in the hospital; I have your names written down in my diary so I will never forget. I would like to thank everybody that was there in person and in spirit at my dad's funeral to help me say goodbye.

If you have any questions at all, please feel free to e-mail me at alicejpark90@gmail.com.

I'm okay. It's okay.

It's like a silent panic. Like I'm underwater, and any struggle on my part is only going to hurt me. I feel very alone.

I do have both parents, living (for now). They got divorced when I was 6, and communicated solely out of necessity through written letters. I do have a sibling. He is a half-brother, on my dad's side, 20 years my senior. He is turning 46 in two months, and our dad may not be alive to wish him a happy birthday. I do have aunts and uncles and cousins on my dad's side of the family. My dad removed himself from them 22 years ago, when Uncle June--his older brother--pulled the plug on my comatose grandmother. "You killed our mother," Dad said. "For that, I will never forgive you." 

In those 22 years, his older sister (Aunt Jannie), his older brother (Uncle June), and one of his nephews (cousin Tom--uncle June's youngest son) passed away. All from cancer. Jannie's was brain tumors. June's was esophageal, and later, lung. Tom's was pancreatic. 

Dad's is liver.

I do have friends around to help me, too. Friends who will link arms with me as I walk through our family's go-to funeral home to plan out my dad's cremation. Friends who will refer me to family lawyers upon me realizing that dad doesn't have a living will. Friends who will walk me through the legalese of death and the dying: durable power of attorney, Medicare coverage of in-home hospice care, acquiring death certificates to close accounts. Friends who will come by my dad's house to fix our internet so I can work from his house as I stay with him for the remainder of his days. 

Yet I have never felt so alone. My brother is somewhere not in this country, and I can only communicate with him via email and sporadic texting. My remaining aunt and uncle--dad's younger sister and brother--are too wary of coming to see my dad, given their vicious separation 22 years ago. My mom doesn't know any more than I do about the logistics of death; she can't help me any more than I can help myself. Dad has no friends; he has managed to push away every single person in his life, except for me. Because, ironically, I am like him. I am stubborn. I will not be pushed away. 

I feel so much more alone each time a phone call to a friend goes unanswered. I feel so much more alone when I ask someone a question about lawyers and wills and hospice care and they simply say, "I don't know." I feel so much more alone now that it's the holidays and lawyers need breaks, too, so they're not picking up my calls, even if I somehow got a direct line to their personal number. I feel so much more alone when my brother responds twelve hours later to a question I ended up figuring out the answer to ten hours beforehand.

But I can't imagine how lonely my dad must feel. 

I have many amazing friends. I am very fortunate. I am, in fact, not alone. This is just something I have to do on my own, I guess. I just wish there was a mom or sibling or close friend of his to also share this emotional (and legal) burden with. But I'm okay. 

It's unsettling to see your own dad cry. Your dad, who used to frighten you with his loud voice and drunken slurs and hurtful hands. "There's nothing to be scared of anymore," Mom said. I stopped being scared of him years ago, I assured her. He is but a frail shell of the man he used to be. At 90 pounds, with hair falling out, missing a toe, sporting a bloated belly from gastrointestinal problems, barely able to sit and stand on his own, there's nothing to be scared of--except his mortality. It all became apparent when he started crying in front of me today. And in that moment, he was just a little boy to me. Not the intimidating, cold person I had resigned to accepting as my father, but a scared little boy. He apologized to me. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I was a bad person. I'm sorry you missed out on a father's love. I'm sorry I was such a bad father. I'm sorry," he sniffled. I kept my tears in, by some miraculous effort on my part. 

My dad shouldn't die believing he was a bad person and that nobody loves him. He was good to me in his own way. Or at least, he tried his hardest. For that, I love him. He just never could get ahold of his temper and anger. Broken people are like that, I suppose. And if it wasn't for the way he raised me, I wouldn't be the independent, self-motivated person that I am today. I have my flaws, but I like who I am for the most part, and it's because of him. Yes, my dad was temperamental and easily-infuriated and emotionally stunted and was an alcoholic, but I know he loves me and wishes he could have done more, or so I'd like to believe He was highly misunderstood and very, very particular about how things should go and how people should behave. Listening to his apology made my heart ache for him. I don't want him to die like this. Not like this. "That's not true," I said. "You were good to me. Look! I'm happy and I'm healthy. I grew up well. Don't be sorry to me. I'm okay," I smiled. "It's okay."

He looked at me and wiped away his tears. "Really?" He asked, like a child looking for reassurance that things will be okay. "I've still wronged your brother. Your mother. Your brother's mother. Everyone..." I think he notices as much as I do that nobody is by his side as he dies, other than myself.

We have never been an affectionate family. At least, not past my early childhood. I remember him doing very loving things. Always taking me crabbing and to the aquarium and to kings dominion. Singing "Oh My Darling Clementine" and "사랑은..." to me. Letting me play a game with him where I would step on his shadow and he would yell "ouch!" and pretend to be hurt. But at some point, every "merry Christmas," "happy birthday," and "I love you" to him started to be answered with a stiff and slightly embarrassed "okay." But I know that's his way of saying, "You too." It's okay. 

Close friends, as I leak the news, are asking how I'm doing, that they are sorry. 

I'm okay. It's okay.