"Not good, honey," Dad says, his typical blunt self. Stoic, blunt . . . my Dad's the stereotypical First Nations man, but he's only a half himself. He's the one I get my hair and skin tone from, although Mom's French Canadian is part of it.
"What's wrong?" I ask, opening my door and getting inside my place. I put my backpack on the counter that is both my dining room table and my kitchen preparation area, and sit down on the barstool chair. "You sound stronger."
"They stopped the chemo today," Dad says as an explanation, and the double meanings hit me like a punch to the gut. The doctors have told me, there's only two reasons that they'd stop the chemo. Either my his cancer has once again gone into remission . . .
"Daddy . . . no, no," I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.
"I'm sorry honey. The docs say there's no hope. The most they can do is keep me comfortable until . . . until it's my time."
I sob, not wanting to but unable to stop it. He doesn't need to hear weakness right now, he needs to hear strength. He's always taught me that, and now he needs that more than ever. I try, and find myself failing, until Tyler's face comes to my mind's eye, and I pull myself together. "So what now?"
Dad takes a deep breath, then chuckles. "We get to go to the hospice house. They'll let me and Marie spend as much time together as we can. I actually got to see her today . . . she remembered me."
“That's good. Dad, I don't want to be harsh about this, but what about the hospice care levels? I remember what you told me last time I visited, the hospice house doesn't have round the clock nurse care."
"No, it doesn't. Insurance provides for a visit every other day, except if there's an issue. I'll have one of those little call button things around my neck."
Every other day? With Mom having near late-stage early onset Alzheimer's, and Dad being a terminal cancer patient? "What if I contribute? How much would a daily visit from the nurses run?"
"I don't know, honey. But I can't ask you to do that. You're already doing so much, even if you never tell me about it. I asked the hospital admin folks. You should be using that money to make your life better, not paying for two people who are dying."
I shake my head, wiping the tears from my cheeks. "Daddy, you're not going to convince me to stop, so don't even try. I'm going to be calling the hospital admin anyway and try to set up what I can. Mom can't help take care of you, and you can't do much to help take care of her."
"I can and will take care of my wife as long as I can," my father rumbles, his First Nations pride adding strength to his voice. He may only be half, but he's been through a cancerous hell that'd kill most men twice over… and still he's strong. "You know my will in this."
"I know, but . . . please. Let me help you as best I can."
"Fine," he says finally, dropping the subject. He and I talk for another few minutes, normal things where I ask him about his day and he asks about mine, nothing new until his next to last question. "And the young man you’re seeing?"
"We're going to go on another date tomorrow. He wants to take me kayaking."
"That sounds good. If there is a chance . . . I think I'd like to meet him."
Whoa. My father has never wanted to meet someone I've been seeing, casually or not. If we lived in the States, I think he'd have spent most of my high school years with a shotgun ready behind the door, at least until the cancer started back again. "I . . . I'll try. He's on the team, and they won't have a bye week until week six of the regular season. Until then, he's working six days a week."
"I can hang on that long. Don't worry about that. I love you."
"I love you too, Daddy."
We hang up, and I have the cry that's been threatening to burst loose since the beginning of the phone call, and hearing Dad's words. The tears are hot, burning and bitter. It's just not fair!
"I want my parents back!" I scream up at the ceiling. It's not good enough, and I storm out to my tiny balcony, looking up to whatever God or gods are up there, repeating myself over and over until I grow hoarse.
I start crying again, until the tears wash away the hatred, putting out the flames at least for a little while. Instead, I feel hollow, and I know that I can't stay here tonight. I think about what to do, and know there's only one place that I can go, where I'll be safe and protected. I grab my backpack and keys, and head out the door.
"April! How good to . . . what's wrong? Come in, come in," Tyler says when he opens his door, and a little part of me chuckles at the fact that he's back to wearing just a pair of exercise shorts and no t-shirt. I didn't know Californians were also mostly nudists.