Here's something that makes me bitter:

I missed Dad's moment of death.

His live-in caregiver for 6 years, I stepped out of the room to speak to a hospice nurse via phone.

Apparently people can only die M-F. Hospice chaplains are not available on weekends.

I was too polite to interrupt the nurse -of a Catholic based hospice- while she Googled for local churches for me to call.

Wanting to scream, "I KNOW HOW THE INTERNET WORKS", I did not.

Still stunned that hospice failed to mention this vital bit of scheduling.

Called by my brother, I returned to Dad, who had stopped breathing.

My hand felt his heart slowing, first thru his shirt. Then directly on his skin.

I missed it.

My brother had been holding him, thank God. We had been repositioning his body (every two hrs) when the phone rang.

Dad opened his eyes one last time and focused directly on my brother's face.

"Hey Dad, it's Charlie. Everything is ok."

...his pupils took seconds to unfocus.

^ this thread is not something I can easily forgive, let alone forget.

Dad had been an altar boy growing up, and considered priesthood.

Denying him last rights, because death is hard to plan, is one thing.

Leaving him during his last breaths on Earth feels unforgivable.