Thinking back

I wish it had happened, maybe, when I felt like my life was under control. At least then - I think - I'd be able to deal with it properly. Probably not.
In December last year, after about three years' illness. My father fell ill. I later found out he'd had three strokes over three years - for some reason no one ever explained it to me... But anyway, he'd been ill for years now.
I remember when it first started, almost four years ago. He called me, telling me how he'd started having black-outs. He'd find himself at work, not knowing how he got there. Or he'd be at home, and next thing he knew it'd be hours later. He was all alone, and I know it must have been a lot worse than what he told me at the time.
But he got even worse. Through the now-regular phone calls, I heard my father's demise into this deep dark hole. He'd call and tell me how depressed he was, and how lonely he was, and that he'd gone to church, or he'd gone to his late mother's grave... and slowly, a part of me was sinking with him.
At this point he'd had to take early retirement, and I was taking care of him financially, along with my sister as much as she could, and sometimes my mother (his ex-wife) - anonymously. If I couldn't be there physically, the least I could do was provide for him. And I did. Over and over. Even when I was questioning whether I should be doing this - he wouldn't have exactly gotten the top prize in parenthood - but I knew I'd never forgive myself if I turned my back on him. So I did. Even when I was broke, if I got the call saying he needed money to go to some doctor somewhere for whatever, I brought out the credit cards and swiped away. Now, I know I felt guilty for not being close physically to him.
I remember the first time I realised that my strong, manly man of a dad was ill; I was devastated. I could not imagine how someone as strong as him could just ... be sick. And be weak, and NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF?! The proud person that he was, who since he was a young boy had had to face the most difficult circumstances and survived them all on his own...? But there he was.
I remember breaking down in a bathroom stall at work, after speaking to his sister who had just told me that my dad couldn't take a flight alone - he'd get disoriented, and suddenly find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He could not be alone.
From then to December last year, it's somewhat of a blur. And I'll let it stay that way. Encouraging him; speaking money to my family; mediating when he fought with or upset someone (the stubbornness was still there!); trying to find out exactly which doctor said what...
And in mid December 06, my mother called to tell me I had to go home to see my dad. I'd planned a trip for the following week, but she said the sooner the better. So much of that time sticks to my mind still. Sitting at the edge of my bed, gripping the mattress to keep from collapsing onto the floor, holding back the tears, while my mother's voice soothed me into realising that this time, it could be the end. That I'm an adult and I had to know the truth - my father would be gone. Knowing that if I said one thing, if I even tried, I would burst into tears. My friend was in the lounge next door, I could hear the TV blarring, and I knew all I had to do was stand up and go to her, but I couldn't. So I listened, as I was told that my father was dying. That I had to go home to say goodbye to him. How do you do that? How do you prepare yourself to say goodbye to your parent. And not the goodbye of knowing you'll see them next week or whatever.
It's good-fuckin-bye, and you just have to have faith that you'll see them again. So in case this is forever, what does all this mean? What do you say? This life, for them, and for you with them, is finished. What the fuck do you do with that information?