Just Raw Feelings That I Can’t Say Out loud, But Saying Them Now

This past weekend, I stayed with my dad who is in hospice care. Watching someone you love suffer is the kind of experience you can’t prepare for. My heart feels split in two—grateful that I still have him here, yet suffocated by the reality of what cancer has done to him.

It’s hard to describe the strange mix of emotions. There are moments when I’m thankful I still have time with him, still hear his voice, still see his face—even if it’s changing with every passing day. And then there are moments when I want to run outside, just to breathe. Breathe anything—because the air inside the house feels thick with pain and helplessness.

I watched him struggle to breathe, panic setting in as he gasped for air. There’s nothing that can prepare you for the sight of someone you love in that kind of distress. We tried everything we could to help him, but it’s like we were fighting against time itself. Watching and hearing the desperate wheeze of air coming in and out of his lungs—that will haunt me forever.

When we tried to move him to his bed, it hit me all at once: my dad, once strong, once the man who could lift anything, is now a shell of himself. His legs—nothing but bone. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, but the scream got stuck in my throat.

I’m angry—so, so angry. Angry not just at cancer, but at the people who overlooked my dad. I can’t understand how so many people said, “You’re okay, Mr. Dulaney, I’ll see you next year,” and didn’t really look at his results. How many times did they miss the signs? How many times did they wave him off, until what? Until it was too late? It wasn’t just once, but several times they missed it. I know that I can’t focus on that though.

But through this anger, I’m still thankful. Thankful for the moments I still have with him, even though they feel like they’re slipping through my fingers. It’s a weird kind of thankfulness, though. It’s not peaceful or serene. It’s like a desperate need to hold on to whatever I can while I can.

One minute, I’m ok—trying to hold it together for my mom, for the family, for the kids. The next minute, I’m outside, screaming with tears streaming down my face, unable to catch my breath from the shock of watching him deteriorate right in front of me. My heart is broken, but I can’t even fully grasp what’s happening. I’m juggling family, responsibilities, finances, the endless things that keep spinning when your world is falling apart, and yet, nothing feels like enough.

I want my dad. I want him to be the man I knew. But I don’t want him to hurt. I want the suffering to stop for him. It feels like I’m being pulled in every direction. I’m grateful for every second with him, but I’m angry that it’s not enough, that there’s never enough time, and that I have to watch him suffer like this.

If this is what cancer does to families, then I hate it. I hate it so much. But in the middle of it all, somehow, I’m still thankful. Still holding on to the moments we have left, even though they’re nothing like I imagined. It’s raw. It’s painful. But it’s also love. It’s a mess. And right now, all I can do is be here with him and try my best to help carry this weight, even if just for a little longer.

I know I’m not the only one going through this—or who’s ever been through this. And while I never want anyone else to experience this kind of pain, I want to say thank you. To everyone who’s been here for us, who’s offered their help, their prayers, their words of comfort. You’ve lifted us in ways you’ll never fully know. I appreciate every single one of you, especially those who met my dad at my shows. He was always there, in the background, making sure everything ran smoothly. He was the one who filmed me, set up my speaker system, defended me when people didn’t understand, and loved me in a way that no one else could.

You don’t really know me unless you know him. He is so much more than just my dad—he is the quiet force that made everything happen. Him and momma is the one who pushed me to chase my dreams, no matter how hard it got. They love me. ME. Not just my gift. And now, as I sit here, watching him fade, it’s impossible to imagine the world without him in it.

To anyone who’s going through this right now—it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. The shock, the pain, the anger, the grief—it’s all part of this unbearable journey. And even if you can’t feel it in the moment, God is with you. He’s there, holding you, even in the silence. I know I beg God every day to heal my dad, to take away his pain, to restore him to the man he used to be. But I know healing may not look like what I want it to. It may not come the way I expect. But I trust that God will heal him, ultimately—whether it's here or Heaven.

My dad deserves happiness. He deserves to be pain-free, sipping his coffee with that smile that would light up a room. But as hard as it is, as much as it shatters my heart into pieces, I’ll let him go if that’s what he needs, so he doesn’t have to hurt anymore. I’ll hold him in my heart forever, but if his peace means leaving this world, I’ll try to give him that peace.

Thank you for caring about him, for caring about us. This journey is brutal, but knowing we’re not alone in it means more than I can say. And as hard as it is, I’ll hold on to every moment we still have, because that's all we’ve got.