Sunday Morning

Spoke to my father this morning; he's still sick, and there are still no answers, although plenty more tests to come, it seems. He sounds marginally better, and says he's improving, but I worry that he's not letting on how bad it may be, as he did six years ago when the first round of serious health scares came.

It was only when it was all over--and his prognosis so much better than we had all initially feared--that I truly realized the severity of it all. Perhaps I just wasn't capable of processing it before then. After all, I was barely capable of talking about it. Just saying the words was too difficult, made it too real. I don't know that it ever really gets any easier.

There we were, many months later, driving back from my college graduation to pack up my house, and he started to tear up because, for a time, it didn't seem like he would be alive to see any of that day. The light was red, and we both trained our eyes on the street ahead, afraid to break our gazes, afraid to say more. It was a hard moment, but one I'm glad we had.

A few years ago, I told a friend of mine, a doctor, about my father's diagnosis from six years prior. He breathed in slightly, looked down at his feet, and said, that's not good.

Yes, but it could be so much worse.

And so, the altering of expectations continues. The trying to make sense of it all.

I wanted something different, but this is what I got.

You'll have to forgive me. This time of year always makes me far too reflexive for my own good.