I still feel this way about my own father's death.
Second open heart surgery, triple bypass, 91% blockage in at least one artery. A necessary risk if it meant a full life after heart surgery.
All was well, until he threw a clot from that, it went to his brain causing a bad stroke.
Neurology left us in lurch. Dropped the ball for the first year or two.
Diagnosis: VASCULAR DEMENTIA
That goddamn clot killed the brain tissue. It deteriorated his brain over 5 years. That's the average lifespan of someone with Vascular Dementia. He made it just barely into a sixth year. And only because we tirefully (yes we were very broken down tired at that point) without help of any kind kept him going until his appetite and ability to swallow finally ended his life.
There were some fun days, some jokes, some hugging and kissing and buddy days. But there was a lot of fucking suffering. Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually. The confusion, the bizarre things he'd do and say, the physical attacks. The moments of clarity which were like teasing us that he's back to himself only top disappear again for months.
And Death isn't easy. I was there for it. It looked hard for him. It was excruciating horror for me, and for my mom she handled it differently, maybe or her profession girded her better. Maybe it was my already fucked up psychological problems that made it so much more drastically worse for me, that and my deep closeness with my dad.
I wish I could find what Mandy Patinkin did in his scenes with the six fingered man, a short moment of catharsis. I'm still anguished about my dad's death. Granted its only been a year and 8 months for me, but it's there everyday, every second.