In my mid-forties, my life was no longer my own. Every Friday after work I would leave my downtown Toronto apartment and drive an hour up to my parents’ apartment in North York, Toronto. I would stay the whole weekend, not leaving until Sunday night, helping them around the house, cleaning, getting groceries, cooking, laundry. I would do whatever needed to be done, whatever they were struggling with through the week. My mom was ill and bedridden. My father, who suffered from heart disease, chronic angina, diabetes, and recurring kidney stones, was finding it more and more difficult to take care of my mother and get done what needed to be done. By the time he was taking care of my mom, almost twenty years had passed since his quadruple heart bypass surgery. At the time of the surgery, we were informed that it did not go well and we should prepare for the worst. The prognosis was that he would have a massive heart attack within six months. But it didn’t happen. Instead, his heart did some repairs on its own, creating new pathways between the valves. The doctors said it was rare, but lifesaving. After that the doctors said they would need to redo the surgery in five to ten years. Five years down the road he needed the second surgery but was too compromised to survive it. Once again, we were told to prepare for the worst. My mom kept him alive through all this. She adjusted his meds daily based on his blood pressure and reading his moods. If he was grumpy, then it meant he had kidney stones even if he wasn’t aware yet. In that case my mom would increase his pain meds till his mood improved. If he was quick to anger, then his heart was working too hard. In that case mom would increase his diuretic medication and give him aspirin. Because of her vigilant observations of him, she caught it whenever he got heart arrhythmia, forcing him to hospital. More than just taking care of him, she really did keep him alive. Even with her care, every doctor’s visit was a death sentence where we were always informed, yet again, to prepare for the worst. It was always looming over us that he was going to die at any time. Yet somehow, I never quite believed it, that he really wouldn’t die. When my mom got sick, my dad stopped going to the doctor all together. My mom did her best to take care of him like she used to, but it was becoming harder and harder for her. That was when I started coming up on the weekends to help. Despite everything that had happened in my youth, I felt I had to help them. I loved them and we had no other family in Canada. There was also a small part of me that wanted to be the bigger person, to willingly do what had seemed so hard for them, to love me unconditionally and do anything for them. After a year of working full-time and spending all my weekends with my parents, burnout set in. I no longer had time to myself. My life was nothing more than working Monday to Friday, then working for my parents Friday to Sunday. The strain of taking care of my parents and myself was becoming unfeasible. Being constantly on the go meant there was no time to rest and recharge. I was exhausted after every weekend from sleeping on a daybed, being constantly on duty, and not having any time to myself. I missed my downtown apartment, I missed my stuff. I had the luxury of living in a huge, rent-controlled, one-bedroom apartment for fifteen years. It was perfect. I also loved living on my own, just taking care of myself. But my parents’ need was becoming too great and I knew I would have to make a sacrifice to continue looking after them. They needed more than just weekend help. Not helping my parents was never an option, both a selfless and selfish motivation on my part. They truly needed the help and had no one else. But I also wanted them to understand and appreciate everything I was doing for them despite difficulties in our relationship, especially during my teenage years. So, I came up with a plan to move into my own apartment in their building. I was thinking it was a good compromise. I would be able to assist them every day, yet have a bed and space of my own. Easter weekend of 2018 I arrived at my parents’ apartment Thursday night. It was an extra-long weekend for me with both the Friday and Monday off from work. That first night, I told my parents about my plan to move. They were thrilled, especially my dad. He couldn’t sleep, he was so happy, keeping my mom up all night, talking about how great it would be to have me there. My mom later told me he had said “The family is finally coming together again.” Dad had a bad Friday because of staying up all night, and he continued to go downhill as the weekend progressed. I was frustrated. He had to go to the hospital. I knew, my mom knew. But he refused. By Sunday I was exhausted from getting up throughout the night taking care of my parents’ needs and being up during day doing chores while they slept. It was a reminder that I had no say in my life, and I was tired of dealing with everything. Dad wouldn’t go to hospital, refused, despite the fact that he could barely get out of bed without almost falling and he was beginning to mumble incoherently. Monday morning, after another sleepless night, my fatigue reached a breaking point. I was trying to nap in the daybed, just get an hour of sleep. It was roughly ten in the morning. Yet the bickering of my parents from their bedroom was keeping me up. Mom yelling for my dad to lie down, my dad responding in his usual “In a minute, I just have to finish one more thing.” He wanted to change the lamp’s light bulb, he wanted to get a drink, he wanted to fill the dog’s water bowl. “Beth can do that.” My mom cried. “Beth, get in here!” I jumped out of bed, all rage and frustration. Before I even got into the room, I was yelling at my dad that he had to go to hospital. When I got to their bedroom, my dad was bend over, pouring water into the dog’s bowl on the floor. I threw my hands up. “I was coming to do that!” When he stood up his eyes suddenly grew big and I knew something was terribly wrong. I ran up to him as he made a strange sound and began to fall. I caught him in my arms but wasn’t strong enough to hold him. He started gurgling, moaning, gasping for breath as we both fell onto the side of the bed. I held him as best I could, trying to gently guide him down to the floor. As I tried to prop him up against the bed, I screamed for mom to phone 911. I don’t know what she said, not hearing her, only hearing my dad gasping for breath, groaning and jerking in my arms till we both fell over onto the floor. The wait for help was an eternity. The fire department showed up first. By the time they started checking for vitals he had stopped breathing. Immediately they began doing CPR. I quickly dissociated when I saw them working on him. I don’t remember the paramedics coming, I don’t remember how they got him out of the apartment because I knew a stretcher wouldn’t go around the corner to the hall. I don’t remember getting dressed or putting on my shoes. The next thing I remember is being in my parents’ car, driving to the hospital. I had left my mom behind since she could barely walk. I got to the hospital in a daze. Immediately upon arriving the ER nurse ushered me to meet with the doctor. He started telling me they were trying to get my dad stable enough to move to the ICU. He was continually crashing and having to be resuscitated. Someone came out of a room just down the hall, calling for the doctor to come immediately. And then the doctor was gone, into that room with my dad. I peeked in, I couldn’t help it. I wish I hadn’t. There were tubes and wires everywhere, a room full of people all poking, prodding, pushing on his chest. And there was blood from his neck going down his chest where a tube was now sticking out. I knew then he was going to die. I phoned mom. I was waiting for the doctor to come back. I knew if he did he would ask if I wanted them to continue lifesaving measures. “Mom, I don’t think he’s going to make it. What should I tell the doctors?” While I was going to the hospital my mom phoned her friend in Niagara. Thankfully her friend was on her way to take mom to the hospital. Mom arrived just as they got dad stable enough to move to the ICU. Once in the ICU, there was no talk from the doctors about what they could do for my dad, only talk of how long we wanted to keep him on life support. “How long do you want to say goodbye?” I cried then. I know I cried, could feel tears rolling down my face, but there was no sting with it. I was outside of myself, numb to what my body was going through, blocking out what my mind was going through. The thought came to me, I should be angry. I always assumed I’d be angry in the moment of my dad’s passing, that everything from the past would come rushing forward. All the hurt he had caused. That he’d never admit to his own wrong doings. That I’d never get an apology. I’d never get to ask him why or hear his side of the story. I’d never get to tell him how much he hurt me. But I wasn’t angry. I was just numb. The whole time, my mom kept talking to him, pointing out that he was reacting to her voice because his blood pressure would go up when she spoke. His blood pressure never went up when I spoke to him, so I stopped talking. I personally didn’t feel anything coming from him, he was already gone. Except for his feet. I remember the blanket being too short and his bare feet sticking out. In life his feet were always cold, and I worried that they were cold now, how uncomfortable it would be to die with cold feet. I wanted to fix it, so I pulled his blanket down. A nurse came in later and pulled the blanket back up over his chest. I left it, his feet exposed, imagining a tug of war ensuing between me and the nurses. It didn’t occur to me till days later that I could have asked for an extra blanket or maybe a pair of socks. They turned off the machines and he passed away roughly an hour later. When he stopped breathing, I felt an intense wave of guilt wash over me. Guilt that my last moments with him truly alive had been angry, angry that he wouldn’t go to the hospital, angry that I had to take care of my parents, angry that I was tried and trying sleep before he had his stroke. Guilt that I felt it wasn’t fair that I felt bad for my actions when he seemingly never felt bad for his. And guilt that I was only thinking of myself in his last moments.