Hate is a strong word.

I hate that I know my way to the hospital so well, I could drive there in my sleep.
I hate that all the nurses know my mom and dad so well, because he's been here so much.
I hate the look in my dad's eyes when he's in excrutiating pain; a mix of fear and suffering.
I hate that my mom's eyes haven't looked dry for a year and a half.
I hate that I can't fix him.
I hate that he can't play with Braelynn.
I hate the thought of writing and delivering a eulogy I know I'll need to do for closure.
I hate that I lose hope.
I hate that I know the sounds and smells of the hospital room.
I hate that I emotionally check out.
I hate that this affects my ability to be a better husband and father.
I hate that I don't have sibling to help me.
I hate that I can't enjoy my daughter's first year of life because my heart is also wrought with sorrow.
I hate that despair has followed hope.
I hate the matter-of-fact way that nurses and doctors talk to my mom and dad.
I hate pulling into the parking garage at the hospital.
I hate leaving the parking garage at the hospital.
I hate the feeling of not being able to do enough.
I hate that no one seems to understand what I'm going through.
I hate that I can't look forward to anything without feeling guilty.
I hate that I can't even smile or laugh without feeling guilty, or at least reminded of the reason not to smile or laugh.
I hate feeling like I bring people down as I'm going through this.
I hate that people ask about my dad but don't seem to care when I tell them what's going on.
I hate that I'm writing this blog post.
I hate that you had to read it.