Getting acclimated to the routines in the hospital, the various doctors and nurses, the important questions to ask, the essential diagnostic procedures that will take place the next few days. The mass on my father's neck continues to grow, wrapping around his throat like a heavy wool scarf. Swallowing is difficult, yet nutrition is essential to combat chemo. A gastric feeding tube was recommended, then rejected when the procedure proved to be too risky. We agreed to try a round of chemo and monitor how he responds. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", takes on a whole new meaning.
Through out the day my father kept talking about cowboys. His eyes darted around the room, often settling on static air. I asked him if we were alone, and he said, "no". "Who else is here?" "Rodger", a name I didn't recognize from his large pool of friends. "Do you know Rodger?" "No, but he knows me," he said smiling. "Who is he?" "My guide."
My father has no fear about the procedures, about dying, or about living with pain. Before we leave I always ask if it's okay if we go home for awhile. A karmic offering, since I think it would be awful to be left alone in a hospital room. He said he wanted to come with us "to say goodbye to the birds and trees and some other stuff." "Don't go", so we stayed until 10pm. After 12 hours, my mother was fading. She spent the day reminiscing about the past, specifically the days pivotal people in her life passed. She cried, and was exhausted by my father's frank, emotional conversations. He wasn't holding back, said we never woke up in the morning and just sat around and talked like we were doing now. We could have "squeezed more fun out of life". He told me how much I've hurt him by not visiting more often. "On this journey it's important to find loving people to be with." It's strange to look forward to another day sitting by his side in a hospital bed, but I do. Life is very pure at this moment, and our connection is possibly stronger than it's ever been.
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