A couple of weeks ago, a couple of very significant things happened that alerted me to just how much he's changed in the last few years, living with cancer. I got a call one evening from him - and if I hadn't had caller ID, I wouldn't have known it was him. The conversation went something like this...
Me: "Hello?"
Heavy breathing. No talking.
Me: "Dad? Is that you?
More breathing. "Come get me."
Me: "Dad, where are you, are you ok?"
Click.
I call him back.
Me: "DAD? What's wrong, where are you?"
Him: "You have to come get me. I'm on Street Name."
Me: "Where you in a wreck? Why are you there? Are you ok?"
Him: "Dogs got out. I chased them. I can't breathe."
Long story short...he RAN over a mile chasing his dogs. He was lying on a curb, in a yard, over a mile from his house. I was at my daughter's dance class at the time, so I called my sister, who lives only a couple of miles away from him and she went to get him - and his doggies, too. He had NO air. No strength. Nothing. How he survived it, I do not know.
The very next night, we started moving my grandma into her new assisted living apartment. We, as in me, my husband, and my dad. Because of my messed up shoulder, Dad thought he'd b bear the brunt of the heavy lifting. He was wrong. He couldn't begin to lift things into the truck. He heaved. He stopped dead in his tracks. He was humiliated.
This is a man who has ALWAYS carried the heavy loads - literally and figuratively. We've been so blessed that he's been chemo-free for almost two years. Not that I'm predicting what the doctor will say, but I've seen some signs that this may not be a feel-good appointment. And it just keeps me in knots.
For three years, the phrase "My dad has cancer" has intermittently crept into my brain. It's not something that will go away. But darn if it doesn't rear it's ugly head now and then.
UPDATE: 6:18 p.m.
I hate being right. :(
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