I wish I could muster enough strength for my father to feel the venomous hatred I have toward him right now. His surgery was worrisome enough, his game of I cant's making me sick, his laughter as an aide washes his ass, repulsive and the pity he demands, shameful.

To know that his own misdoings has created a mess physically for him and psychologically for the rest is beyond pathetic and to comment further might empower him. To know he has the ability and refuses to try and would rather lay still in a hospital bed is sad and his teachings can all be thrown out the window for the fight he spoke about is no longer. His own selfishness overtaken by pink elephants and rabbits that he sees from the medicine he continues to request, knowing it too is keeping him at bay from family, friends and all those that are trying to help him get better.

He himself is the problem, not the surgery, the post op or the disease process. Unlike other I refuse to be at his beck and call and listen as he jokes about his predicament, his sorrows and wows that he himself created for all around to witness.

He quit.