A few weeks ago, I got in my rental car and drove to Pop and Mamacita's house. What I didn't mention about the trip was that I stopped at the top of the street and cried for about fifteen minutes before proceeding down the road to my house.
Because I promised myself that I would not step into my father's house again unless he was in it. Because for a year, he wasn't. He was in St. Francis Hospital receiving three rounds of chemotherapy for acute myeloid leukemia.
So for me to be able to walk into our house and see my dad, sitting in his chair, reading a magazine, was a personal and familial triumph unlike anything I could ever describe. For me to get up the next day and get in the car and drive to the grocery store with my dad, and pick out, you know, stuff to put on the grill, was on par with, say, having tea with Jesus or winning the lottery. For me to wake up one day, look out our front window, and see this:
... was enough to make my heart crack. In fact, my heart was cracking all week. I could write all day and all night long, and you'd still have no idea how much I love my dad. No. Idea.
It is for this reason that I am fairly well near demenita because my dad has lost his remission and is back in the hospital. His diagnosos is recurrent acute myeloid leukemia. I'll save you the google search, people: barring some kind of UNHEARD OF, EVER BEFORE IN MEDICAL HISTORY miracle, it's over. We'll be lucky if he lives six months.
If you will excuse me, I am going to go smash my head against the wall until I pass out.
I'll write more on this subject when I get more news.