CARRYING OUT FATHER'S FINAL REQUEST BECAME LABOR OF LOVE.

Byline: Tracie Breiter

THIS Father's Day is going to be difficult. For the first time in 40 years, I won't have a father to honor. My father is no longer alive. After a short bout with cancer, he died this past February.

So this year I won't be agonizing over whether to get him another polo shirt or something for his computer, but I did conquer many fears in order to give him one last gift.

When my father was diagnosed with cancer last November, my worst fear had come true. At 77, he was the remaining member of his immediate family, having lost his mother and three siblings to cancer. I had worried that he too would succumb to the disease.

With the news of his diagnosis, I became panic-stricken. How was I going to put aside my fears about terminal illness, death and loss, and deal with watching my father die if he couldn't be cured?

After determining that my father had a type of cancer that spread quickly and responded poorly to treatment, the doctors believed a cure was unlikely.

Even so, my father started chemotherapy. I prayed that he would beat it and life would soon return to normal. But after only four treatments, he developed pneumonia and was hospitalized.

Visiting him in the hospital was distressing. His condition noticeably worsened in a short amount of time.

Just a week earlier he looked fine and his spirits were high. We laughed and joked like we usually did when we were together. The only indication that he was ill was the loss of his normal voice due to vocal cords paralyzed by tumors.

Now he was too weak to get in and out of bed by himself, and he looked sick. These sudden changes scared me, but I found that the need to be with my father was greater than my discomfort. Still, I thought, this is the limit to what I could cope with.

After a week, my father recuperated from the pneumonia and was discharged from the hospital. He decided against more chemotherapy and made a request that filled me with apprehension - he wanted to die at home.

Who was going to help my mother take care of him? I couldn't. Even if I didn't have two young children to tend to, emotionally, I couldn't bear the responsibility of being my father's nurse.

Luckily, my sister arranged to move into my parents' house. My mother also hired part-time help and hospice care was provided by my parents' medical plan.

But eventually, my sister needed more help, and she asked me to stay with him from Sunday to Monday. I said yes, but I wasn't happy about it. The truth was, I was petrified.

Despite my apprehension, my first night went well. My father was still able to get around on his own and do some things for himself. I gave him his medications and made sure he was comfortable.

Even though it hurt me deeply to see my father's health and independence slip away, I discovered that I liked being there for him. It made me feel helpful in a hopeless situation. I also cherished that extra time with him.

But as the weeks passed and his condition worsened, it became harder and harder to watch my father deteriorate. Still, I was compelled to be with him and do whatever I could to make his last days easier.

On Friday, Feb. 14, I had a strong desire to visit my father, and I did. He was in a terrible state that night. He was lying in bed, groaning nonstop as he constantly shifted his body about. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be in deep concentration, unaware of his surroundings.It was the most heartbreaking experience of my life, but I'm glad I was there. The next morning my father died.

Shortly thereafter, my family received a condolence letter from the hospice staff who helped care for him. The letter writer praised us for giving my father a wonderful gift by making it possible for him to die at home, surrounded by the people and things that he loved.

Knowing that I was part of his support system and contributed in fulfilling his final wish, despite my fears about death, helps ease my grief and gives me great comfort.