I was my father’s only child. Some of my earliest memories are drive-in movies, milkshakes, long drives through the park with Donna teasing him at deer crossing signs, antique shops, Cloverleaf Speedway, dinners out, and plays. It never mattered what we did. Being together was everything. Even in the last four years, we spent countless hours driving, going to auctions, eating out, and talking. What shatters me is how his life ended. While he was dying, I was kept from him. He spent nearly two months unable to eat. He was malnourished and severely dehydrated. He wanted me there. He said so. He needed me, and I was still kept away. The pain of knowing he suffered without me to hold his hand is something I will carry forever. The neglect he endured haunts me. A nurse told him if he soiled himself, he would have to lie in it. Another night his call button was taken away. I placed a camera in his room to protect him, and it was removed because his medical POA, my daughter, said it did not need to be there. He asked to revoke his POA, but no one listened. He was treated as if his voice no longer mattered. He was so dehydrated the inside of his mouth was crusted. He passed away on January 3, and I was never notified. I do not know the time he took his last breath. I found out the next night when my cousin called. My world collapsed. I should have been there, holding his hand, telling him he was loved. I am told that if I want a service, I must pay for it myself, even though she controls his life insurance. Because of personal hatred toward me, I have been kept from my father in life, from him in death, and from any sense of closure. I wake up every day with a hole in my chest where he should be. If anyone can help, it would mean more than words can express.