On the way home from my sister’s
Driving to the hospital, the crops are doing real good all around it appears. This summer has had some favorable weather and plenty of rain out here in southwestern Ohio.
I took my Dad over for a shot of some sort. Something to bring up his white blood cell counts, ravaged by the chemotherapy.
He was chipper even though walking too far winds him something powerful.
Essentially, the chemo didn’t work. He’s at an impasse now, whether to do another round of stronger therapy, or focus on approaches that consider pain management.
I wrote the other day about new fun words I’ve learned, and they were a poor representation of the wholesome good time I had that night. But now I’m having to come to grips with other phrases with definitions rooted in reality.
Hospice.
Quality of Life.
Things of that sort. I’m reminded of a line from the movie I saw yesterday, taken completely out of context. It was the mother of a gay son bursting from denial,
“Maybe I don’t want to know.”
Seeing my Dad in good spirits was enough to help me block out what is feared. Personally, I’ve lived with Cancer long enough, that I, by no means invite death, but I do not fear it.
I can recall the good stuff.
There’s volumes of it.
Life’s been relatively wonderful.
Even with the lows, the stubbed toes, the broken bones, and getting lost in the corn behind the house growing up— there was relief in finding the exit.
I think the worst thing I can do is forget the good parts.