A year ago, I would spend a few moments a day at the hospital as my dad slowly died. He went in with a broken hip on Groundhog Day, but gagged on a grilled cheese sandwich and aspirated said grilled cheese sandwich shortly after getting a room. He had a tube down his throat after that until he had his hip surgery a week later. He was able to tell me that he loved me, but not much else. He had a tube again and then a trach. There was hope he could pull through, for he'd been worse in the past.
It was so cold and the snow came and went and came again for his memorial service.
I'm allowed to be sad. Seems like a waste... what he went through only to die the way he did.