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People are nagging me to, but I can't. If I look at food, my throat closes up. It's been like that for the last few days.
We tried so hard to help Dad get heavier. A lung patient's survival is closely tied to whether they can still put on weight. We cooked anything he wanted, made all his favorite dishes. Now he's gone, and I'm angry at food. I don't even want it around me.
Our last Sunday dinner, he had about three little bites of his fried chicken, a forkful of spinach, and one taste of the potatoes. Also a tiny sliver of pie (blueberry, from the bushes he planted himself, with some raspberries and blackberries thrown in). Then he went to the hospital and never came back.
He was a big, tall, strong man with a great appetite for life and food and everything. I can't believe we let him slip away like that.
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