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February 4, 2016

When your parent gets sick, gets that dreaded diagnosis, that’s when you must accept that there may be no choices left. And then, you are left with miscellaneous decisions that have little to no impact on the ultimate result and reality: the final-ness of it all.

The diagnosis brings an undercurrent of hopelessness, a feeling of the ground shifting -- with no railings to hold on to. We pay close attention to the doctors’ words and we lose traction by the day. The family gathers in person and through texts, trying to figure it all out, to make sense of it, to maybe find a choice that was not so clear at the outset.

But there are no real choices, just inconsequential ones: to treat or not, for how long, how to alleviate the pain, the labored breathing, and the disorientation. As we address these issues, we feel hopeful and naively secure -- that we are taking measures and being pro-active and pro-ductive, pro – anything to help him and to help us, as we can not face that he is slipping away. We do not have enough time to accept that he is almost gone.

The weeks are harried, full of appointments, phone calls, insurance questions and desperate requests for an oxygen tank. There are glances and longer looks, wondering if he realizes how this is going, how it will end, how soon it will be. And during this time, do we realize what is happening? Do we take time - to take time, to realize that this is the end of time for us to be around him?


The diagnosis takes away choices but it does not have to take away moments. Once it’s over, it’s over. During the sickness, the treatment, the day-to-day slippage, do we take time to notice the moments together, no matter how limited or fleeting they are. Not realizing that tears are falling, a nurse surprises me and says, “It’s okay to cry ... he’s your father ... it’s okay.”

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