My dad went into kidney failure when I was in college, 20 or 21 maybe. He was a diabetic in his late 50s. He spent the next five years having dialysis three times a week, having to monitor every ounce of fluid he drank, going to the ER every other weekend when his blood pressure would suddenly drop and he would pass out.

Finally, he got a kidney transplant, but while recovering in the hospital, he was infected with MRSA, an antibiotic-resistant form of staph. The transplanted kidney rejected within a month and had to be removed.

He was released into a nursing home for recovery, but his spirit was completely broken. Between the persistent infection and heart problems his doctors told him there was no chance he could get back on the transplant list.

He couldn't face it, so he let himself die. He refused to participate in physical therapy, became incomtinent, refused to make any effort to control his fluid intake - basically did everything he could do to passively end his life - ultimately refusing to eat. He had contemplated suicide before, during the years of dialysis, but he was terrified of death and there was the slim hope that he might be saved. Now there was nothing but fear and certain decline.

Six months after the failed transplant, he was hospitalized for abnormally low blood pressure following a dialysis treatment. A night staff nurse gave him an accidental overdose of insulin and he fell into a coma. A few days later my mom and I sat in the staff breakroom at the hospital while his medical team told us he would never wake up.

They took him off all his meds except a morphine drip to keep him comfortable. We all had to wear scrubs, a mask and gloves in the room with him because of the MRSA infection. We were told not to touch him and asked to avoid common areas of the hospital so as to reduce the chance we might cross contaminate something.

I spent the night in the hospital with him the last night of his life so my mom could get some rest. His mouth was frozen open and his breathing labored. I told him that I loved him and that he didn't need to hold on for us, that he could let go - the sorts of things the hospital grief counselor had told us to say.

In the morning, the inside of his mouth was coated with a dried film of mucous. I carefully cleaned his mouth with a damp cloth, peeling the film off his tongue and teeth as best I could. I saw that his hands and feet were caked with blood and iodine from all the IVs and procedures he'd had. As I was washing his hands, my brother and mom arrived. They started helping me and together we washed my father's body, cleaned his nails, and took turns keeping his mouth from drying out by swabbing it with a damp sponge.

I went home to shower and change. When I got back, he was dead. Mouth still frozen open, body stiff. I took my mask off and kissed his forehead. A nurse snapped at me that he was still infectious, so I washed my mouth at the sink but god dammit, I fucking going to kiss my father good-bye. He'd been in the coma for six days.

My father was not an easy man. He loved us kids in his way, but he regretted his marriage and made sure my mother knew it, even when she was changing his diapers at the end. As horrible as it was, I am grateful that his illness and death enabled me to see him as a man, not just as my father. He made mistakes, he could be a dick sometimes, but he did the best he could and I accept that and I forgive him.