When I got the call from Mom, she said, "He's gone. He just died. They're coming to pick him up right now."

Instead of crying out in despair, I blew out a sigh of relief. "Thank God it's over." I wouldn't have wished what my dad went through on Hitler.

He thought he had strained a muscle while playing golf when he went to the doctor for chest pain. My mother could hear his wailing all the way out to the waiting room when he heard the truth. "It isn't a muscle strain," the doctor said. "The cancer has spread to your kidney."

After having prostate surgery three months earlier, I thought he was home free. My mother and I had survived breast and skin cancer, so why wouldn't Dad survive this?

But for the next few months, we went through living hell as my dad spiraled downward and there was nothing anyone could do to save him.

In September of 2009, he entered Thornton Hospital to have his bladder removed and a colonoscopy bag put in. I knew we were going to lose him and my heart was breaking. I visited him every day, drinking bottles of Ensure with him and trying to avoid watching the urine swirl in a plastic bag attached to the bed.

Three months later, my husband came home from taking Dad to a doctor's appointment. He said, "Well, it won't be long now."

"What won't be long now?" I asked.

He looked at me as if he had just been stung. "Didn't your family tell you? The cancer has metasticized."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. My voice was thin and brittle.

"I'm sorry. I thought they already did."

"When do I ever speak to my family. When do they ever tell me anything?"

I was furious at him because he doesn't take care of me and neither do they. They all live their lives to suit themselves and then turn to me when they need something.

In March, Dr. Rivera came out to the house and had a "man-to-man" talk with my dad. According to my mother, the doctor even held my dad's hand as he told him he didn't have long to live. What a terrible thing to say to somebody! If I was terminal, I wouldn't want to know. I believe that doctors should always give people hope.

My family and I had one last good day together. On March 13, an angel married my son. I hadn't seen Stephanie until she walked down the isle, her head covered by a glittering veil. I was curious to see what she looked like. Dad had said she went to Stanford University on a fellowship. He was proud of that and I figured even if she looked like something the dog had chewed on, my son had already won first prize.

When she raised her head, I saw her face for the first time and couldn't hold back the tears. So help me, Stephanie had the most beautiful face I'd ever seen. Her beauty reminded me of Rita Hayworth or some other movie star of the golden film era. I couldn't believe that she wanted to marry MY son. She was every mother's dream.

And what a great day it was for my dad! He had lost thirty pounds and practically had to be carried to the event, but he made it--just as he said he would. He was a gruff old guy and had demanded that the doctor make him well enough to attend his only grandson's wedding.

I was sitting on a bench in the dark, when I saw my dad approach the wedding cake alone. It was made of chocolate, had four tiers, and was covered in red roses. As I watched him look at it, I wondered what he was thinking. I imagined that he knew it was the last wedding cake he'd ever see. Normally, he hated "girly" stuff, but in his position, he probably wanted to take in everything.

In the spring, I tried to make peace with my dad. He had always hated everything about me. The only time I really thought he cared was when my mom said he burst out in tears upon hearing I had breast cancer. But even then he didn't call me.

I wasn't invited to family gatherings either. In the early 1990s, my sister and I had gotten into an argument at a Thanksgiving dinner and I had called her "fat." She had said worse things about me, but I was the one who got thrown out because I had no rank. That's how it was in my family--the favorites came first and the rest of us could go to hell. I had always ranked dead last. My sister took advantage of this and acted like a spoiled brat.

My dad may have been an abusive old bastard--telling me I was ugly and an unfit mother--but he didn't deserve to die. I forgave him every rotten thing he'd ever said, including telling my boyfriends that I was dangerous because he didn't like them.

In the last months of his life, he was a nervous wreck. He knew what was coming and couldn't outrun it, no matter how much he and the doctors tried. When I found out he wasn't eating, I brought a pint of yogurt to the house. It was always his favorite dessert, but he didn't touch it. As my husband and I sat in the living room with him, he asked, "So what have you been doing?"

"I'm taking a class in journalism and I've just attended a rally to support the traffic checkpoints," I said.

"I'm not interested in any of that stuff," he scoffed. And then he went on to tell us all about the book he intended to write--the same book he had talked about writing for years. But that was okay. I was there for him that day, even if he wasn't there for me.

A week later, I called him to say I'd be in Rancho Bernardo and asked him if he wanted me to bring him something to eat.

"You don't have to bring anything," he said. "You can come for a visit, but you have to keep your mouth shut because I'm not interested in anything you have to say." I was struck dumb and for the first time in my life, I royally told him off.

My rant was apparently disarming. Instead of yelling at me, he said, "Uh, I've got to go," and then hung up.

If those were the last words I ever said to him, I didn't care. I sat on the edge of my bed that day, feeling completely at peace.

What the hell? I'd tried to comfort him and all I got was a slap in the face. I saw no point in bothering with him anymore. If he died, he died. I'd said all I had to say.

I didn't go back to his house, until I spoke to my mother on June 30. She said his eightieth birthday was the next day.

"I know it," I said, with no particular plan in mind. What good would it do to visit him if I couldn't open my mouth? And I knew he'd hate any gift I gave him.

"And the hospice is coming in," she added. I couldn't believe this was happening to my dad. He had always been so strong, whether fighting in Korea or designing a module for the Apollo space program. I was suddenly living a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

"I'll be there," I said, nearly choking on the words. What a crappy deal, to have hospice workers come in on your birthday.

When I last talked to him, he had given me his final advice. "If you want to make me happy," he said, "keep writing." On the dining table, I had seen a copy of the San Diego Reader. In that issue, my story "Quinn in the Middle" had appeared. Dad had never read a story of mine before, so maybe this was his way of making amends.

And later he said, "If I die, I had a happy life." Those were the exact words I said to my own daughter when I thought I might die of breast cancer. Maybe he really did care.

But the next day, July 1, 2010, I dreaded entering his bedroom. I had no idea what I would see. My mother had discontinued his chemo treatments so I couldn't imagine that he looked well. But I still wasn't prepared for what I saw. My dad was staring at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open. He looked comatose.

I rushed to his side and took his hand. It was stiff and the fingers were splayed as if the hand had already atrophied. Awash in tears and embarrassed to have my mom see me that way, I told her that I would stay throughout the night.

She seemed relieved. She and my sister had been taking turns being by his side so he wouldn't get up and fall. "I'm sorry, Dad," I whispered when she left. "I'm sorry for everything."

Then I saw his eyes slide in my direction. He sat up and said, "Get off me, Stupid!" I was shocked. For a moment, he had been stuck between two worlds.

"I can't breathe," he complained. I gawked as if he had just risen from the dead. He looked around for the tube to his oxygen tank. When he finally found it, he looked confused. I held the prongs upward, but couldn't bring myself to stick them up his nose.

He slapped it out of my hand. "I've got to go outside," he said. "I've got to breathe."

My mom was reluctant to get the wheelchair, but I told her to get it anyway. She was afraid he'd fall out of it, but flopping on the ground was the least of his worries.

As she pushed him to the door, he begged her to help him. "I don't think I'm going to make it," he said, and then he burst into tears.

I didn't get it. How could he have trouble breathing if he could talk just fine?

A compact car pulled up to the house. "Help me," he yelled to the lady inside. "They're holding me hostage."

"He's so crazy!" my mother said.

"He's not crazy," I replied. "He's panicking. He can't breathe."

We had been waiting an hour for the hospice nurse to arrive. Certainly, she would have the answers for my dad. I was a patient care volunteer with the Elizabeth Hospice for two years, and knew it was her job to manage his pain.

But instead of getting out of the car, the nurse stared at us in confusion. Apparently, she thought my dad didn't like her parking, and she began moving her car back and forth along the curb.

"Oh my God!" my mother said, not believing what was happening. How could our luck be this bad?

We were both bewildered and once the nurse entered the house, she started to piss me off. She stood in the living room, looking perplexed, as if she needed us to help her.

As I tried to push the wheelchair over the doorjamb, the nurse stood beside me as if she wanted to take over. I was capable of pushing a wheelchair, I needed her to end my dad's suffering. He was suffocating before our eyes.

Finally, the nurse called the doctor, and as they waited for him to come, she asked my mom if she had any Lorazepam. My mother gave her a small, brown bottle. She stared at it, and then asked my mom if my dad should take some.

"It knocks him out too much," my mom said.

My God! Isn't that what we want? I asked myself. If I were dying of cancer, I'd take the whole bottle.

No one was listening to me. There was too much chaos and confusion. The nurse was supposed to take charge, to see that everything ran smoothly while my family's heads were spinning. Instead, she acted as if she didn't know why she was there.

As much as I tried to help my dad, he said he wanted my sister. My sister was of a higher rank than I was, even though I was the one with a college degree. By the time she got to the house fifteen minutes later, my dad had a stool waiting for her. He asked her to sit down and then said, "Look me in the eyes..."

I don't know what he had in mind, but he made it clear I was not the one who could help him. Hadn't it always been this way? He loved her and hated me. I saw no point in hanging around; I just seemed to be in the way. So I took one last look at my dad, then got my purse and drove away.

I think I was the victim of one of my mom's home perms!