This is one of those columns I’ve avoided writing for a few weeks now, I needed time to digest the information before I was ready to tell anyone about it. I’m still not ready – how can you ever be? – but Father’s Day is the natural time to talk about the fact that the person I admire most in the world, my father, is dying.
In the metaphysical sense we’re all dying, of course, and the older anyone is the faster that prospect is approaching. Still, the reality of it versus the knowledge of it in the back of your head is stark. Humans, as far as we know, are the only species on the planet with the knowledge of our own mortality. And it sucks. (If this seems rambling it’s because it is difficult for me to address, to formulate linear thoughts on. Sorry about that.)
A couple of years ago, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was caught very early, he’d had pneumonia and chest x-ray showed spots. A biopsy showed cancer. This is where it gets complicated.
My grandmother, my father’s mom, suffered from bone cancer for 12 years after being told she’d maybe live