My father has opted for surgery to remove the tumor. At this point, it looks like the prognosis is very good, although they will know more after the surgery. Thank you so much for all of the well-wishes and support. Leigh, I love the quote you left - thank you.

I had a lightbulb moment when talking all of this over with Mr. Gearhead in bed one night, and expressing my frustration about not knowing how to support my dad. Mr. GH said I should just say how I felt – that I was scared, and afraid he was going to die. I recoiled from him a little, astounded that he would even say something like that. I mean, who says “I’m afraid you’re going to die”, because … well … I mean … when you say that, it means … I mean … is it true? That my father might die? And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. My father has cancer, and yes, he might die from it. It seems laughable that I had not considered this possibility, until you understand that it was my emotional self that held this thought at bay. Of course, cancer and death are inextricably linked in one’s mind, but somehow I had managed to keep that idea safely trapped in my head, not allowing it anywhere near my heart. When I heard my husband say those words out loud, my defenses shuddered, rocks and boulders rained down, and then it all collapsed in a heap onto the ground. Yes. My father might die. And finally, the tears came.

I have not found the strength to share this part of me with my father, and the urgency seems somewhat diminished, what with all the positive news we’ve received. I would still like to be able to open myself to him, but I refuse to judge myself for not doing so. Instead, I have offered my physical presence, and am attending all of his doctor’s appointments with him. Especially after learning that he was alone when he learned from the oncologist that he had cancer. That my mother was sitting at home, doing nothing. Probably scrapbooking, or watching TV, or sleeping. So concerned that she called us wondering if we had heard from him, speculating that he was curled up in a ball somewhere. But not concerned enough – or maybe just too fucking lazy – to be there with him. A thought that still disgusts and enrages me so much it brings bile into my throat.

So I make sure that I am there for him, at his side, asking questions, grilling doctors, making sure he is informed and getting the best care he can get. He has told me – in his rational, logical, unemotional engineer’s way – how much he appreciates it, that I am gracious and kind to rearrange my life and go to all this trouble just for him. How do I answer that? How could I not be there? It is sad that he lives in a world where not having support seems to be an acceptable possibility; that having support is a pleasant and unexpected surprise. But I don’t say those things. I just touch his hand and tell him I’m glad I can help.