"Hi Nina, it's Dad. Can you get somewhere we can talk?"
I swallow an entire mg of xanax and head for the door. In front of my building, I sit on the bench under the trees. I call him back.
"Hi Nina. We got a whole bunch of tests back, and the results are not good. My leukemia is back with such a vengeance that Dr. O does not think that there is any hope of achieving a remission."
"Well, yeah. So we are not going to do more chemo. We are going to get out of the hospital and drive up into the mountains for a vacation. Then we'll decide what to do next - and have a much fun as possible while there is still fun to be had."
"Have you and Dr. O discussed this from every possible angle?"
"Yes. And this is what we want. And by the way, don't come down here under any circumstances. I love you, but this is going to be hardest on Mamacita, and I need to spend my hours, minutes, and seconds with her."
A lot more discussion ensued, but the one question that I did not ask is how long he had to live. The answer, as my beloved google tells me, is a couple of months.
Here is my Dad with his only grandson, who calls him Pop. Liam will not remember him. When we said goodbye to our Dad in the driveway on August 24th, that was goodbye.
I will post about this again when he dies, but other than that, I'll try not to. I am sure you all would rather read about something, anything else.