Dad

Tuesday, July 7, 2009 at 11:36pm

Feeling good from our first diabetic support group, we went to my parents to pick up Shelby, our 1 year old. While waiting in the car, I saw my dad walk out to say hello to the kids. As he eagerly peered into the car windows, I was struck by how gaunt my dad was, especially his thin toneless arms. I remember as a child, standing by the side of our club pool in Taiwan, wrapped in a winter coat, watching my dad swim with the rest of the polar bear club, his thick arms cutting through the water with ease. He could open a bottle of beer with his teeth. That was my dad, a strong man.

I didn't notice his muscles atrophy until tonight. I asked my husband if his dad's muscles atrophied the same way when he was going through the last stage of cancer. But his dad's cancer was different. Patrick suggested that instead of feeling anxious about not doing enough for my dad, I should ask him if there's anything I could do. I dropped my head, feeling ashamed, realizing that I've been avoiding asking my dad just that question for the past few weeks. The truth is that I haven't asked him because I'm afraid of his answer. That there is more that I can do. And then I have to face the fact that there's nothing left in me to do what needs to be done. Drive him to his radiation treatments. Research studies and treatments for prostate cancer. Convince him to get chemo instead of radiation.

I went to my room looking for a tissue. Crying doesn't flatter anyone, especially with all that snot business. As I blow my nose, Shelby walks pass me, like a drunk with a bad case of hemorrhoids. Just a few days ago, taking a couple of steps took herculean effort for her. As I watch her make her way down the whole length of the dark hallway, towards the light shining from her older siblings' room, I could hear Spencer and Sydney singing,

thank you father

thank you father

for our food

for our food

many many blessings

many many blessings

amen

amen