Should I Blame Myself Because My Father Died?

After all, I drove him to the bookstore and put a copy of Final Exit: The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide for the Dying in my father’s hands. And I knew why he wanted it. But, I believe in free choice. Dad lost most of his vision to a tumor and his independence to the stroke that followed. No longer able to eat or speak; he needed rehab unavailable in Alaska, so we flew him to New Mexico. He moved to a semi-assisted apartment after three months in the hospital and another year living with me. He took care of himself, but he could no longer work, drive — or read. A man of intelligence and curiosity, reading had been one of his great joys in life. Libraries, reading, and books are among my strongest memories of my father. “What shall we read tonight?” Dad would ask, and we’d sail away for as long as he would read to us. I snuggled against the warmth of his flannel work shirt, listening to American Tall Tales, Heroes of Long Ago, and Voyages to Far Away Places. The aroma of wild cherry pipe tobacco, Old Spice aftershave, and the woodstove tickled my nose as I perched on one arm of his overstuffed reading chair, my younger sister on the other. Perhaps he planned to spend his retirement reading, but now there were only Talking Books for the Blind, and in 2001 the selection was limited. Still, he subscribed to the National Geographic and The Skeptical Inquirer magazines, fighting to read with the help of an arsenal of magnifying glasses. <a href="https://medium.com/the-memoirist/should-i-blame-myself-because-my-father-died-6589be21a5a1">Read More</a>